


Shoulder to Shoulder, Hand to Hand

by cornelius



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American military, Ballroom Dancing, Competition, Fighter Pilot Castiel, Latin dancing, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Professional Dancer Dean, Reality TV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornelius/pseuds/cornelius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After release of his memoir, the last thing former fighter pilot Castiel wanted was more time in the spotlight. But when a chance comes up to be on a celebrity ballroom dancing competition show, he knows that drawing attention to his cause is more important than his own comfort.</p><p>Dean’s danced on Ballroom Superstars for nine seasons without a single win under his belt. With his tenth season coming up, and a man for his partner, he worries that the championship is forever out of his reach.</p><p>Castiel and Dean both want to win for their own reasons, but they’ll have to figure out how to work together, and manage their mutual attraction, if they want to become the new Ballroom Superstars champions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to [ceeainthereforthat](http://ceeainthereforthat.tumblr.com) for asking for a DWTS AU and then helping me shore up my structure and teaching me how to be a better writer. Also, thanks so much to [messier51](http://messier51.tumblr.com) for reading a bunch of versions and always being awesome. And thanks to [stormykira](http://stormykira.tumblr.com) for creating beautiful art which you can find [here](http://stormykira.tumblr.com/post/130664394000/shoulder-to-shoulder-hand-to-hand-by-s-cornelius)! And always always thanks to the Meta Saloon for listening to me gripe and letting me bounce ideas off you. :D  
> 
> 
>   
>  [](https://41.media.tumblr.com/de158af1c4e2b185173b2b14575b18ce/tumblr_nvtfgrMhs41rw20d1o1_500.jpg)   
>    
> 

Only moments after Castiel entered the dance studio, the formerly tidy space looked like it had been hit by a natural disaster. Camera and audio equipment were strewn haphazardly across the floor, abandoned by their operators wherever they’d been stationed around the room. Several people were having serious conversations on their cell phones, while others paced anxiously around the room. 

One man, dressed in a tank top and basketball shorts, hung up his phone before recklessly flinging it at his bag. He stalked over to a woman who looked to be in charge and whispered furiously at her. Castiel assumed this man had to be a professional dancer and Castiel’s assigned partner; if his attire hadn’t immediately given him away, his sudden angry shout of “You gave me the _gay veteran_!” most certainly would have.

Half a dozen crew members milled about the studio awkwardly, and Castiel stood stock still just inside the door. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop—he really only wanted to stay out of the way of whatever problem the happening in front of him—but the dancer was making no effort to keep his voice down. 

“It was supposed to be _my year_ ,” the man barked, “ _You_ and all those other higher-ups _promised_ me a contender.”

The woman rolled her eyes at him and hissed something at the man too low for Castiel to hear. The man laughed at whatever she’d said, but there was no humor to it. 

This brief glimpse at the dancer didn’t quite gel with what little Castiel knew of the man. Castiel’d only ever seen one episode of _Ballroom Superstars_ and it had been on a night flight during the last grueling leg of his press tour—not exactly the ideal conditions to create a devoted fan. He knew the basic format of the show—celebrities were paired up with professional dancers, and had to learn a new dance for live television week after week—but he’d learned most of that from Hannah, not from watching the show. 

But he did remember seeing this dancer in that one episode, and knew that this man was somewhat admired when it came to choreography. He also knew that this man was a little cocky and seemingly laid back, but from everything Castiel’d seen of him so far, Castiel surmised that _moments_ like the one occurring in front of his eyes were probably edited out.

“Fine!” another shout from the dancer jolted Castiel out of his observations, “We’ll do it over again!” The dancer threw up his arms in frustration before finally turning his attention back toward Castiel, his green eyes flashing from hard and cold to embarrassed. 

“Look, um,” the dancer said, softer than before, and rubbed the back of his neck, “sorry about earlier. I was just caught off guard, that’s all.”

Castiel thought about saying that it looked like he was more than just _caught off guard_ , but he shook his head, “It’s nothing. I can go out and come back in again?”

The dancer nodded his head, and Castiel, along with a camera man, a boom mic operator and a producer, walked back through the door of the dance studio. The line producer, a short dark-haired woman with a completely _done_ look in her eyes, stopped Castiel from turning around and immediately re-entering the studio—“We’ve gotta give them time to reset!”—and Castiel took a moment to breathe. 

He centered himself, focusing on all the positive benefits to society Hannah had lined out when he signed the paperwork. She told him it would be desperately needed good press for their cause—swaying public opinion to their side could only help their legal battle. He also remembered the six-figure check that was waiting for him at the end of this televised nightmare, money already destined to aid in the legal defense of LGBT servicemembers. He just had to make it through the next three months ...

A faint crackle over the producer’s headset pulled Castiel back to the present. It was time to try again.

He entered like he had been told to: creeping into the room and peering around until he found the dancer, who stood in the middle of the room, seemingly engaged in something on his phone. In the calm before making his presence known, Castiel took a moment to take in the details about the dancer he’d missed from before. 

His dancer was tall (but couldn’t be more than an inch or two taller than Castiel himself), and fairly handsome—when he wasn’t arguing with the line producer. His dark blonde hair was carefully styled, but in a way Castiel assumed was meant to look like he didn’t care about his appearance to the casual observer. The dancer’s back was to the door, and from Castiel’s vantage point, he could really appreciate the broad expanse of the man’s shoulders and the gentle taper from shoulders to narrow hips. Castiel’s gaze dipped lower, to well-muscled thighs and calves, but if he lingered in the door any longer, certainly the dancer, still waiting for him to introduce himself, would get suspicious. Castiel finally approached the man, still scrolling through his cellphone, and tapped his arm—another suggestion from the producer. Castiel wasn’t prepared at all for the blinding smile he received when the dancer whipped around to face him.

“You’re my partner?” Dean asked, all anger and frustration replaced by very convincing look of surprise and excitement. Castiel nodded, and Dean pulled him into a half-hug, thumping him on this chest.

“Great!” he said, offering his hand, “I’m Dean.”

Castiel was stunned, but he pulled himself back together enough to respond.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said as genially as he could muster, and took Dean’s hand, “Castiel Novak.”

—

Dean felt like a complete jackass. Castiel seemed like a nice enough human being, and after nine seasons of dealing with the all the ways the producers liked to stir the shit, Dean should have been prepared to introduce himself without throwing an epic temper tantrum like a homophobic five-year-old. 

Dean had been told repeatedly that he wasn’t going to turn into that dancer who got paired with one type of celebrity season after season—like Abaddon and old men or Aaron and teenagers. He had gotten _so close_ last season, just one tiny percent of the viewer vote away from the Mirrorball Trophy and winning it all, and he’d been promised that his partner would be a contender this season as a reward. 

But instead, he got _Castiel Novak_ , who was undoubtedly paired with Dean as a gimmick or a ratings draw. If the show wanted a way to suck the sexually frustrated middle-aged housewives of America back in week after week, they found it in the dark hair, blue eyes, and very alluring biceps—currently peeking out from under the sleeves of a t-shirt—of Castiel Novak. 

Dean steered Castiel over to the purple-carpet covered steps on the far end of the room, and sat him down. This little chat would become the “getting to know you” part of the package of edited together clips shown before their dances on the show. They would talk about why Castiel was on the show and what he hoped to get out of it, and Dean would tell him encouraging nonsense while on the inside, his hopes and dreams slipped away. 

Dean wracked his brain for one of the fifteen or so questions the producers had fed him this morning, but everything he could remember made him want to roll his eyes in boredom. Still a little bitter from his conversation with his line producer Ruby, Dean improvised, opting for cheeky instead.

“So, how does it feel to be the first gay veteran on the show?” Dean feigned innocence, but he could see Ruby fuming out of the corner of his eye.

“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel replied, deadpan and serious, “I’m not gay.” 

“What?” Dean asked, confused, while Ruby shook her head behind the camera man.

“I’m not gay,” Castiel repeated, staring off into middle distance, “at least according to the widely accepted definition that gay means exclusive attraction to the same gender.”

“Well ... good for you,” Dean said, now slightly regretting beginning this conversation.

Castiel forged on as if Dean hadn’t said anything at all. “The media keeps saying I’m gay, but really, it’s just that I have no preference when it comes to the gender of my romantic or sexual partners.” Castiel turned to look at Dean and Dean doubted he would have been able to break away Castiel’s gaze if he tried. The last time anyone had looked at him like that—all of a their energy focused so intensely on him—Dean’d certainly gotten laid.

“And I would think to someone in _your_ profession,” Castiel continued just as intense as before, but with a hint of a mocking smile, “sexual orientation wouldn’t be an issue.”

Dean stood up. “Stop,” he said to the camera man, a little more forcefully than intended, “What I’m gonna say is not the kind of stuff you can air anyway.” The camera man fumbled with the record switch, and when the red light on the front was off, he turned back to Castiel.

“I don’t give a fuck who you do or don’t sleep with. But this _thing_ that’s happening, this _partnership_ ,” he spat out the word as he gestured between them, “is not the producers throwing a bone to gay men or to anyone, no matter the stereotypes of my _profession_. This is a ratings grab, designed to glue eyeballs to screens, and that’s at _my_ expense—“ Dean jabbed a finger at himself before pointing to Castiel, “ _and_ yours.”

Dean breathed heavily. Castiel just stared at him, and Dean couldn’t make out any emotion on his face. Dean knew he was being a jackass again, but he couldn’t stand the idea of being denied _even a shot_ at winning this fucking show _again_ , and even worse, of being _used_ like this. 

All of Dean’s previous anger suddenly left him. It wasn’t Castiel’s fault that they were stuck together, and it certainly wasn’t his fault he was being just as used as Dean was.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dean said, sitting back down gracelessly, “We’re in this same boat together, so it’s no use taking it out on you.”

Castiel tilted his head, seeming to try to piece together Dean from his rapid mood swings, as Dean gestured to the camera man to start filming again.

“So,” Dean started again, forcing himself to act like this was the real beginning of their conversation, “first time dancin’?”

Castiel started to nod his head, but stopped mid-nod. “But I took tap lessons in elementary school.”

“What about fitness? You still at your fightin’ weight?”

Castiel nodded again, and Dean fought off the urge to ogle the man. Despite the loose fit of his shorts and t-shirt, Castiel obviously kept up some kind of fitness routine, even post-military. At least, if the state of his biceps and thighs were any indication of what the rest of him looked like.

A thought popped into Dean’s head, and he sent Castiel a sincere, but slightly mischievous grin. “Do you think you can lift me?” Dean said slyly.

Castiel looked momentarily shocked, but then gave him an answering grin. “Definitely.”

“Okay,” Dean clapped both his hands on his knees, and stood up, offering a hand to Castiel, “I can work with that. Let’s dance.” 

—

Castiel hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was in shape. However, after just six hours of dancing, he was sure he’d need to revise his definition of “in shape.” 

Once they’d finished for the day, Castiel’d plopped down on the floor to do some stretches, and hadn’t been able to muster the energy to get back up again. He laid on the hardwood of the dance floor, hurting in places he didn’t know could hurt, and glowered at the door Dean had disappeared through just moments before. Dean, of course, had taken Castiel through a few stretches before bounding out the door with a cheery “See you tomorrow!” like he’d spent the past six hours _not_ engaged in strenuous activity.

One of the camera men came over to Castiel to help him up, before also disappearing—along with the other camera men, the boom mic operators, and Ruby—through that same studio door. Castiel groaned as he bent down to pick up his keys and his phone, and hobbled to the door. As he walked to his car alone, he noticed a missed call and a text from Hannah. He pressed the button to call her back with a sigh.

“Castiel! How was your day?” Though a little annoyed at her for the current state of Castiel’s aching body, Castiel couldn’t help but smile a little when he heard her voice.

“Exhausting,” he replied, fumbling his keys as he tried to unlock his car.

She laughed before asking, “So who’s your partner? I hope it’s Jo or Lisa—they’ve performed very well in previous seasons.”

Castiel let out another sigh, and leaned against his car, “It’s Dean.”

“Dean?” Hannah asked, and Castiel could picture her expression: a quick jerk of her head in surprise and a frown with brows furrowed in concern. “Hmm. That changes things on our end. I need to make a few calls, but I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Hannah hung up the phone without a goodbye. Castiel knew Hannah wasn’t one for social conventions of hellos and goodbyes, so he didn’t hold it against her. He did however wonder what Hannah meant when she said “that changes things” as he climbed into his car. As a PR genius working for OutServe, Hannah was in the business of helping LGBT servicemembers; Castiel would think that two men dancing together would barely cause her to bat an eye.

But his conversation with Hannah made it clear that the people in charge of _Ballroom Superstars_ hadn’t told _anyone_ about this pairing, probably banking on Dean and Castiel’s surprised reactions or making sure the news of two men dancing together didn’t get out early. So, he was sure Hannah was doing everything in her power to capitalize on this news, and  preparing to use it to further their cause.

He just wished he knew what to make of Dean. Dean had _hurt_ him, and he clearly didn’t want Castiel for a partner. But could he blame Dean? Castiel was on the show to help his cause—this was Dean’s job and his life, and people in charge were messing with it for sport. Castiel supposed his reaction wasn’t that shocking—considering the fact that Dean was obviously straight.

 _Still_ , Castiel thought, _he could have at least been more professional_. 

Castiel put Hannah and Dean and the whole show out of his mind as he started his car. Instead, he thought of the _many_ ice packs waiting for him when he got home, and pulled out of the parking lot.

—

The next morning started out much better than the first. While Castiel was still a little sore from the previous day, Dean was in a much better mood. Castiel wondered if his partner’s previous crankiness was related to Ruby—who was absent this morning—or if he had just gotten over whatever issue he was having with the show.

Despite Dean’s improved mood, Castiel still felt unsettled. They were still surrounded by cameras, and he and Dean both had lapel mics threaded through their shirts and tucked into the waistbands of their pants. It wasn’t any different from the day before, but sometime between getting the mic on and starting rehearsal for the day, Castiel realized his exact predicament. He and Dean were going to be watched _constantly_ for at least the next three weeks leading up to the premiere, and then however long Castiel stayed in the competition. Castiel wasn’t new to having his life under public scrutiny (the lawsuit had taken care of that), nor being on camera (the press tour), but he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. Every stumble and every failure would be captured, and probably used as fodder against him in the 24-hour news cycle. Hannah said he _needed_ the American people on his side, and he had never been particularly good at performing. 

Dean started their morning by continuing to teach Castiel the basic jive step, but even Dean’s chipper mood couldn’t make the difference between a rock step and a triple step any clearer than the day before. They had already knocked knees twice, and Castiel could tell that Dean’s mood was beginning to sour. Dean had said early on that it would probably be best if Castiel led all of their dances, since he was going to be compared to the other male celebrities, but Castiel wondered if it wouldn’t be easier just to have Dean lead. 

Still distracted by the wire that was starting to stick uncomfortably to his sweaty back and the glaring red light of the camera, Castiel miscounted the beat and brought his foot down hard on Dean’s instep. Dean jolted back, cursing, and Castiel cringed. Dean dropped Castiel’s hand, declared it break time, and stormed out of the studio. So much for _that_ good mood.

Dean came back after less than a minute away, two water bottles in hand, and tossed one at Castiel. “Okay, what’s your issue?” Dean asked, not unkindly.

Castiel shrugged, but gave a meaningful look to one of the cameras intently fixed on them.

“Yeah,” Dean conceded and shrugged, “takes a bit of getting used to. Feels like you’re livin’ in a fish bowl. You wanna—?” Dean gestured toward the studio door and Castiel nodded in agreement. 

Dean started steering Castiel toward the door, but scowled when he noticed they were not alone. A whole conversation passed in a few looks and shrugs between Dean and the cameraman. Castiel guessed that Dean had asked for some privacy, but the cameraman had denied that request. Dean sighed deeply, and kept walking, resigned to the fact that they wouldn’t be able to get away from the crew.

He led Castiel outside the building, to a wrought iron table and chairs, and at least the crew had the decency to hang back a little. He motioned for Castiel to sit, and fell into his own chair with a sigh.

“Not good with being filmed?” Dean asked and Castiel shrugged.

“I’ve been on TV before,” Castiel replied, “but those were tightly controlled interviews. I knew the questions ahead of time, and I had my talking points. This—“ he gestured toward the crew, “is different.” 

Dean nodded in understanding, before his face shifted to a look of confusion. “So why did you agree to be on this show?”

It was Castiel’s turn to sigh. “It was Hannah’s idea. She—”

“Girlfriend?” Dean asked, and there was something more than curiosity Castiel couldn’t quite read on his features. Hopefulness? Regret? It was hard to say for sure.

Castiel shook his head. “No—publicist. She thought that if we could raise public consciousness of the outdated Department of Defense non-discrimination policy, it would get the Supreme Court to put our case on their docket. Also—” Castiel recalled his call from Hannah earlier that morning to let him know what her team had decided about the news Castiel was dancing with a man, “Hannah thinks it would help to normalize same-sex relationships on a very popular …”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean cut him off, “but why are _you_ on this show? What are _your_ reasons?”

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but closed it as soon as he realized he didn’t really have an answer that would satisfy Dean. He _did_ want to raise awareness for his cause, he hadn’t been lying about that. And he certainly didn’t want anyone to ever go through the pain and humiliation he went through in his last year in the U.S. Navy. But beyond that, Castiel didn’t have much of an answer. He was sure most celebrities did the show to have fun, maybe promote something they had worked on, remind the general populace that they still exist, and so on. 

For Castiel, being on the show wasn’t just a matter of letting people know the injustice he’d suffered due to bad laws. Hannah said they need to change hearts and minds, sway people to their side, change a social structure that still sees people like Castiel as Other and unfit for their jobs. And for that, he needed _to win_.

He needed to prove to America that he was just as strong and competent and driven as any other man. And maybe, he also needed to prove it to himself.

Castiel couldn’t go down that road with Dean after knowing each other for a little over a day, so he opted for a different tactic. “Personal growth?” he said tentatively and Dean snorted.

“Yeah, that was _real_ convincing,” Dean said. Castiel rolled his eyes, and before he could retort, Dean held up a hand to stop him. “Look, you don’t have to tell me why you’re doing this, but there are going to come times when you have to dig down deep just to find enough energy to get out of bed, let alone dance all day long. This show burns you out, and if you don’t have a goal to go back to, a _reason_ to drive you to finish, we’ll be done in week two.”

Castiel nodded once, processing everything that Dean just said. “What’s your reason?”

Dean looked taken aback and Castiel wondered if anyone had ever asked him that before. “I guess ‘it’s my job’ isn’t going to work,” Dean said with a grin and Castiel shook his head.

“I want to win,” Dean said, shrugging, and fixed his gaze on his hands where they were absently picking at some loose paint on the table, “I was a competitive ballroom dancer for most of my life, and that drive to win never really goes away. This will be my tenth season on the show, and I’ve never won before—though me and Charlie got pretty close last year—and I’m worried that soon I’m going to be too old to have a real shot at it.”

Castiel reached out and put his hand on Dean’s arm. Dean startled a little at the unexpected contact, but smiled at the small gesture of comfort.

“Okay,” Castiel said, hand still resting on Dean’s arm, “What do we need to do to win?”

Dean stood up and Castiel followed. “First of all,” Dean began with an intensity Castiel hadn’t seen before, “we need people to want us to come back week after week. If we have a loyal fanbase, we won’t be knocked out after a bad week or two,” Dean grimaced at the thought, and continued, “So we have to work on _us_. We have to _talk_ to each other so that every little frustration—and there will frustrations over the course of the show—doesn’t completely derail us.”

Dean looked Castiel up and down, and sighed, “You also have to get a whole lot better at dancing. Since you haven’t had any formal dance training in like 30 years, you’re going to be at a disadvantage. But if we’re going to win, you can’t rely on just figuring out the basics. You have to have perfect timing—” Dean ticked off one finger, “impeccable technique, artistry to your movements, and be able to connect emotionally with your audience.” 

Castiel wasn’t too worried about technique or timing; years in the U.S. Navy had at very least forced him to learn how to march in time, and a decade as a fighter pilot had made detail a matter of life and death. But Castiel would be the first to admit that he had never really thought of himself as graceful, and more than once his fellow sailors had tried to cajole him into playing poker with them—apparently he was known for his stoicism. He wasn’t sure what connecting emotionally with the audience entailed, but he doubted it would come naturally to him.

“And _I_ have to do the best choreography I’ve ever done in my life,” Dean paused for effect, “That’s how we win.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next three weeks passed in fits and starts of progress. Sometimes Dean and Castiel had stretches of two to three days where Castiel executed every step perfectly, and included all the stylistic touches that were so important for the character of the jive. On those days, Castiel could kick and flick with the best of them, and Dean could see that his expression, while still a bit too impassive for the jive, had some excitement and delight. In between these rapid bursts of progress were long stretches of stagnation. Dean knew that acquiring any skill included plateaus, but Castiel was easily frustrated with these lulls in progress and that frustration made further progress even harder.

They were only two days out from the season premiere and Castiel was inches away from cracking. After spending the past two days in a frenzy of making sure Castiel finally got all the steps down, Dean started him on detail work. They focused on the nitty gritty stuff Crowley and Cassie loved to pick apart—hand placement, posture, consistent knee height, pointed toes on kicks and flicks, and so on.

Dean made him do each step over and over again, and cringed as Castiel robotically moved through the dance.

“Stop,” Dean said, and Castiel looked at him, wild anger barely contained. Dean decided to change tack—correcting Castiel at this moment wasn’t going to help either of them.

Dean walked over to Castiel and brought him into the first position of their dance. “What are you thinking about when you dance?” Dean asked, left hand on Castiel’s shoulder, right lightly clasping Castiel’s hand. 

Castiel frowned, though not the frown of frustration—he was confused. Dean said nothing, waiting for Castiel to work through his response. 

“I’m thinking of the steps,” he said as if that is the most obvious thing in the world, and his expression turned dark, “and all the mistakes I’ve made once that I don’t want to make again.”

Dean shook his head in gentle rebuke. “Remembering the steps is important,” he conceded, “but you also have to enjoy yourself, and there’s no way you can do that if you’re thinking about all the ways you can and have messed up.”

Dean pulled the remote for their stereo out of his pocket and hit play; it wasn’t their competition music and Castiel’s confused expression returned as the room filled with the first piano notes of _[Hit the Road Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8DRen60X10)_ by Ray Charles.

“You’ve learned the steps, you know the rhythm, I’ll call out a step and we’ll do it next,” Dean explained and Castiel’s eyes widened in horror.

“Ready?” Dean asked, already tapping his toe to the beat.  

“No.” Castiel looked pained, but Dean ignored the pleading in his eyes.

“Basic in one, two, three, four,” and Dean led Castiel through the basic three times. The first time through the basic, Castiel started off the beat, and didn’t catch up until the beginning of second repetition. All his steps were in the right place as they danced through the basic the second time, but all flourishes that make the dance stylistically right were absent, so it looked more like stepping in time than a true jive. But on the third repetition, Castiel visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping from their hunched up position, and moved much easier. 

Dean smiled as Castiel’s technique fell into place. He led Castiel through a fourth basic before calling out an underarm turn. Castiel stumbled in the first turn, but as Dean moved them from step to step, Castiel struggled less and less at the transitions. By the time they danced through three songs and _[Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qafnJ6mRbgk)_ started up on Dean’s jive playlist, Castiel even seemed to be enjoying himself. Dean let himself loosen up too, throwing in a few complicated steps while Castiel danced the easier ones. 

Dean finished the song by falling into the splits, and Castiel let out a rare bark of laughter. Castiel helped Dean back up, both of them sweaty and a little out of breath, but beaming at each other.

“What’d you think of that?” Dean asked.

“It was,” Castiel paused, searching for the right word, “fun?”

Dean just laughed in response, clapping Castiel on the back. “Just remember that feeling Monday night and you’ll be great.”

Castiel’s grin melted away at the mention of the season premiere on Monday night. “Don’t get all in your head about it. _Feel_ _it_ —don’t think.”

Castiel still looked skeptical, but Dean believed his own mantra. He had to get into the right headspace to dance, to let his body move in time with the music, and if he had to drag Castiel there too, he’d absolutely do it.

—

Sunday night’s dress rehearsal went off without a hitch—or at least without a hitch when it came to Dean and Castiel’s dance. There were at least a dozen technical problems and several celebrities barely made it through their dances, but Dean and Castiel sailed through theirs effortlessly. 

The dress rehearsal took place in the large soundstage where the show was taped live. Most of the room was taken up by the wooden parquet competition-style dancefloor, including an opulent booth for the four judges and a stage at the far end a few steps up from the floor. The back of the stage was dominated by a pit where the band would play come showtime, which was flanked on either side by large, colorful staircases. Behind those was a two-storey tall circular screen used on competition nights for pre-dance package interviews and graphics during the dances. 

A whole army of workers unloaded simple stacking chairs into neat rows around the dancefloor, and when Castiel looked up, he saw more chairs being unloaded on the balcony level. Another, grander staircase led from the dancefloor to the balcony level, the top opening onto a spacious, special overhang Castiel’d heard called the “skybox.” Before Dean and Castiel’s dress rehearsal, a producer running the dress rehearsal explained that the couples went up to the skybox after dancing. There, they’d be interviewed by one of the co-hosts and receive their judges’ scores. 

As they went through the run through of their dance, Castiel felt a little odd being his costume for the first time, though he figured jeans and a t-shirt were probably a lot easier to dance in than the sequined and revealing costumes of his female counterparts. The producers had picked _[Faith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lu3VTngm1F0)_ by George Michael for their first song, and Dean had decided that their concept was ‘50’s jock and greaser’. Therefore, Dean was similarly dressed, though where Castiel had an old-fashioned cardigan-style letter jacket (with a bejeweled blue letter C sewn on one breast) over his t-shirt, Dean wore a black motorcycle jacket over his. They both threw their jackets off early in the song, so he wasn’t quite sure why the difference in their jackets mattered—and when he’d asked Dean, Dean’d groaned and told him to watch a movie for once.

After their run through, Dean congratulated Castiel on a job well done and repeated his advice from the day before: “ _feel_ —don’t think.” This advice, however, was just as perplexing now as it had been the day before. Over the course of Castiel’s entire life, he’d never relied on _feelings_ —feelings were something that could’ve gotten him or his co-pilots dead. Everything he had ever done had been for a _purpose_ , actions to achieve a higher goal, and how he felt about those actions didn’t factor into his decisions. That’s not to say that Castiel didn’t have feelings; it was just that using them in this way, _relying_ on them, was almost incomprehensible.

Castiel was distracted by Dean’s words as they stepped through the next bits of the show. He tolerated awkward small talk with Dick Roman, the smarmy and darkly funny host, as they got fake scores. They were then hurried up to the skybox, where Castiel muddled his way through a fake interview with the other host, Jody Mills. Her no-nonsense line of questioning and deadpan humor made her seem standoffish at first, but there was real warmth in the way she greeted Dean. She obviously cared little for Dick Roman’s false cheer, and that endeared her to Castiel—there was something so _fake_ about Dick and Castiel couldn’t stand it.

Their interview over, the crew moved Castiel and Dean to the railing where they could look down on the dancefloor and watch the other celeb-pro pairs run through their dances. After just a few dances, Castiel knew that, while he and Dean had a successful dress rehearsal, they probably fell somewhere in the middle of the pack. Dean’d told him as they were practicing that no one is really that good in the first week, and that growth was more rewarded than consistency. Still, there were a few couples who could barely make it through their dance without falling over each other, and one or two who emerged as clear frontrunners.

Castiel’s attention was drawn from the dancefloor when Dean jumped up to greet one such couple who’d just made it up to the skybox. They had just cha-cha-ed to to _[Love Never Felt so Good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJDdBbgJafU)_ with an ease Castiel could only dream of, their playful and bright expressions drawing everyone around into their performance.

Dean and the professional dancer, Aaron, embraced in a manner that was close, but still respected norms of male homosocial interactions (even if Dean’s gaze did linger on Aaron’s bare torso longer than was probably acceptable). Dean enthused about Aaron’s choreography, before the two of them excused themselves to grab two other pros, and practice one of the bumper dances—the kind that would let the audience know that the show was back from commercials. 

Castiel was left alone with Aaron’s celebrity partner, Krissy Chambers, unsure as to whether he should talk to her, or go back to watching the other run throughs. He knew Krissy by name, and he only knew that because his teenaged niece, Claire, had asked for tickets to Krissy’s concert for her birthday. 

“Krissy Chambers,” she said with a small, flippant wave and Castiel nodded his head. He started to introduce himself in return, but she cut him off with an impatient, “I know. You’re the _veteran_ this season—though don’t they usually they pick someone who’s overcome losing a limb or something? What’s your issue?”

Castiel’s anger flared, both at her casual dismissal of Castiel’s struggles, as well as her general irreverence. Instead of balking at Castiel’s undoubtedly obvious display of anger, she smiled a mocking smile; she’d been trying to get a rise out of him and succeeded. 

“You dance well,” Castiel said, sidestepping her previous comment entirely, “you should go far in this competition.”

“Yeah,” Krissy said with a smirk, “it helps that I’m not as _old_ as everyone else here.” 

Before Castiel could protest that he wasn’t _that old_ , another celebrity, dark-haired with sharp eyes, sauntered up to them.  

“Clarence, that’s quite a fitting song you’re dancing to,” the new celebrity said to Castiel, voice thick with wry amusement, “some producer really has too much time on their hands if they’re looking up obscure angel names.”

Castiel furrowed his brows in confusion. “My name isn’t ‘Clarence’.” 

The woman let out a peal of mocking laughter. “Of course it’s not.” Without any further explanation of the nickname, she introduced herself as Meg Masters, the most recent Bachelorette, and only the second bachelorette to not pick anyone at the end of the show. Castiel didn’t know anything about the show she had been on, but nodded politely, if not a little distantly, through her explanation of the “absolute _dearth_ of quality men the producers rounded up.” She explained that the producers must’ve had a stockpile of washed-up high school athletes and army recruitment center rejects just to fill out the pool of bachelors.

Her quick wit and dry humor was more entertaining to Castiel than he would have expected, though he could have done without her cheap shot at the military’s perceived low standards. … or her outfit, which Dean would have called ‘sexy nurse with sequins’.

Krissy and Meg quickly moved on from Castiel, talking and trying to out-sarcastic each other, but Castiel honestly preferred it this way. Without them trying to (and really, succeeding at) making him uncomfortable, he could focus on the dress rehearsal on the dancefloor just below him where Dean danced a steamy samba with a blonde pro. 

Castiel had seen her dance a foxtrot with her partner, a young and up-and-coming martial artist turned movie star named Kevin Tran, and he’d worried at the time that she was too much woman for Kevin. Now, seeing her attack this dance with Dean, all crisp lines and ferocious precision, he wondered if there was anyone she wasn’t too much woman for.

Dean and his partner danced with Aaron and another female pro, and the two men exchanged partners back and forth as effortlessly as breathing. Castiel didn’t know any of the names of the steps, but he marvelled at their speed and intricacy. The four dancers struck a pose as the music finished, and Dick Roman announced their names with his best used-car salesman smile: Dean, Aaron, Jo and Lisa. Castiel didn’t know which of the two female dancers was Jo and which was Lisa, but some small part of him envied the amiable (and even flirtatious) smiles they received from Dean. He was loose and open with them, and despite their growing familiarity, Castiel and Dean were still miles apart in comparison. 

Castiel’s interest in the rest of the dress rehearsal waned after that, his mood soured by his partner’s friendliness with pretty much _everyone_ other than Castiel. Castiel watched him joke with dancers, flirt with celebrities, even stop to chat with someone unloading chairs for the audience.

Castiel knew he wasn’t a _desirable_ partner; he’d never danced before and he wasn’t a musician or athlete—Hannah’d informed him that musicians and athletes often did well on _Ballroom Superstars_ —and now there was a whole controversy surrounding his appearance on the show. Still, he thought that he and Dean were building a rapport, and he was surprised how much it hurt to see that wasn’t true. Dean evidently only saw Castiel as a means to an end—a (probably longshot) last chance at winning—and not a true partner. 

He watched as Donna Hanscum, an olympic hockey player, took to the dance floor with her partner Victor and dance the jive, until Victor winked at Dean in his final pose, and Dean let out a full-body laugh. Castiel wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Dean to carefree and his mood darkened even more.

Castiel waited for Dean to rejoin him back up in the skybox, but Dean didn’t make his way up until almost every other couple had danced. Once the dress rehearsal was over, and the producers had made sure that everyone knew where they were supposed to be and when, the whole cast was dismissed for the night. Castiel watched other couples leave together, or talk and make plans before going their separate ways, but Dean just shot him a “see you tomorrow morning!” before disappearing into the dispersing crowd. As everyone who made the show happen milled around him, he stood, feeling like a fool who’d outstayed his usefulness for the day, before finally leaving, too. 

—

To say that Dean and Castiel’s first dance was a disaster would be needlessly melodramatic. However, to say that it was over before it begun would just be factual.

In hindsight, Dean should have seen it coming. 

Castiel had been distant and tense in their morning rehearsal, barely speaking a handful of sentences to Dean. Dean hadn’t been too concerned at the time, since Castiel had performed the dance as well as Dean could expect for someone who’d only been dancing three weeks, and he just chalked it to Castiel focusing before the big event.

They went to separate trailers to get into costume, and met back up again for make up. Dean tried to pump Castiel up on the walk over, but could only get terse nods out of him. Then, in make up, they had been sat with a very chatty Bela between them, and she seemed determined to both get under his skin before he danced, as well as convince Dean to go home with her after the show. Dean caught glimpses of Castiel watching their conversation, his face stony and eyes cold.

Then, it was time for the show to start, and Dean couldn’t let himself wonder too much about Castiel anymore. The first few shows are always a blur of activity and format changes resulting in people forgetting where they were supposed to be between all the dancing, so most of his energy was devoted to getting to the right spot at the right time and dancing the right steps. 

They danced out together after their first introduction as a couple by Dick Roman to hoots and cheers from the audience. Dean loved this part—the energy and support from the audience made him feel like he actually belonged here, like he could be _good_ at this. He led Castiel through a jive basic and a simple turn, his most congenial smile plastered on his face, before they walked over to join the rest of the couples in the center of the ballroom. Dean and Castiel were stuck between Bela and her partner Harry Spengler, a man who “hunted” ghosts for a living on TV, and Abaddon and her partner, an old actor—Dean could never seem to remember his name—famous for playing the “Alpha Vamp” for a decade on TV thirty years ago. 

Abaddon and Bela both shot Castiel the kind of smirks that say ‘you’ve got no chance, kid.’ Abaddon was a three-time champion, but she hadn’t won in at least five seasons, and Bela won handily two seasons ago. In fact, aside from Gabriel, who seemed to fizzle out about halfway through season after season and had yet to make it to the finals, Dean was the only pro left who hadn’t been able to nab the Mirrorball Trophy at least once.

Dean glanced at Castiel, and all his confidence left him in a whoosh. He could see that Castiel was completely overwhelmed and barely holding on to his gentle half-smile (Dean couldn’t get anything broader out of him, but he also kind of thought Castiel’s little smile was cute, so he didn’t press it too much). Dean gently squeezed Castiel’s hand in reassurance and Castiel looked up to meet his eyes. Surprise flashed across Castiel’s face before he set his jaw in a hard line and looked away. Acutely aware of the millions of eyes on the two of them, Dean didn’t press the issue, but squeezed Castiel’s hand again.

Their dance was smack dab in the middle of the show, so the first hour was Castiel staring silently at the other couples during their dances, while Dean tried to talk to him, offering bits of commentary and criticism.

“See, Kali has a whole lot of natural grace, but she doesn’t finish her moves,” Dean whispered to Castiel as they got into their place backstage, “You may not have that grace, but you have better technique.” Castiel said nothing in reply, his expression still miles away, and Dean sighed. 

The judges announce Kali and Gabriel’s scores—6’s across the board—before it was Castiel and Dean’s turn to dance. Dean put on his best and brightest competition smile as he led Castiel out onto the stage, fighting the urge to confront Castiel about his odd behavior. Dick Roman introduced the package, and then the giant circular screen lit up behind them.

Dean turned around to look as it showed their (second) first meeting. All of Dean’s mentions of the show format and frustrations with their producer had been edited out, and as far as the audience could see, their first three weeks of rehearsals had gone swimmingly. They cut to Dean talking about wanting to win it after coming so so close the season before before switching to Castiel’s interview.

Dean hadn’t seen this footage before, but he was unsurprised by what Castiel had to say. It had that kind of rehearsed air that suggested someone’d made him run lines a few times before talking with the crew. They showed pictures of teenage and young-adult Castiel from his days at the Naval Academy, before cutting to one of him in the cockpit of a fighter plane wearing a flight suit, one of him standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier, hair buzzed short to conform to regulations, and finally in his dress uniform, medals and ribbons pinned to his chest.

Dean had spent a lot of time with Castiel over the past three weeks, but seeing him up on the big screen, Dean was struck with an important realization. Dean may have started to pry up the protective outer shell of Castiel’s personality, but he knew almost nothing about the man—Castiel’s childhood, his military career, his home life, hell, his favorite ice cream, were all a mystery to Dean.

Seeing pictures of Castiel in his element though, giving a thumbs up from the cockpit of a plane or standing seriously with his brothers- and sisters-at-arms, sent a shiver down his spine. He could see all the confidence and power that he had missed over the past three weeks, lurking underneath the slightly awkward and stoic exterior. 

Dean turned to Castiel, a forlorn and nostalgic look on his face as he watched the end of the package. Dean opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to say. After all, he’d learned more about Castiel in thirty seconds than in all the hours spent dancing together. Before he got a chance to speak, the package wrapped up and they were being ushered to the their starting positions. 

“Okay,” Dean said, grabbing Castiel’s hands and squeezing them encouragingly, “you can do this.” Castiel nodded, his face set in look of determination. 

They got four counts of music to prepare, and then they were off. 

Castiel did all of his opening steps perfectly, flinging his jacket into the audience with a charming grin. Dean tossed a wink and his motorcycle jacket at young girl in the audience, and before turning back to Castiel. They came back together in closed position, took one step and that was all she wrote.

Dean didn’t know if Castiel had been distracted by something in the crowd, or if he had just missed a beat, but his first step was a half a beat off, and he had to play catch up for the rest of the dance. His carefully constructed expression turned to a look of intense concentration as he just tried to get all the right steps back on the beat. All of the finer details of technique that Dean had hammered into this head disappeared as Castiel moved inelegantly from step to step. The character of the dance was gone and so was any chance of establishing themselves as an early contender.

Dean pushed down his frustrations as they went into their final pose. Castiel’s face was pulled just a little too tight—Castiel was not happy with their performance either—so he just hugged Castiel and told him he’d done a good job. And that wasn’t a complete lie; Castiel hadn’t missed a single step, though it was still questionable whether he’d placed any of them on the beat of the music.

He may have had encouraging words for Castiel, but all he felt for himself was despair. He _knew_ he wasn’t the best dancer on the show, but he still hoped that eventually he’d win it at least _once_. Now, certainly about to face some harsh words and low scores, Dean wondered if they’d be able to dig themselves out of this pit they’d created. He tried to puzzle out how this train wreck of a dance could have been avoided, and always came back to some mistake he had to have made. Maybe the choreography was too hard. Or he didn’t get Castiel to focus enough at the end. Or maybe he just wasn’t any good at this whole show, and he could only drag Castiel down with him.

They walked over to Dick Roman to get the judging over with, Dean trying to hide his despondency. He wrapped his arm around Castiel’s shoulders, which were tensed and stiff as boards, and hoped the two of them didn’t look as miserable as they felt.

Cassie Robinson, two-time _Ballroom Superstars_ champion, a stickler for technique (and also Dean’s first real girlfriend), started off their critique. She said that she liked Castiel’s dedication, but felt that they needed to work on the connection between them and with the music. Balthazar, the flamboyant English judge (who felt he only needed one name) to Cassie’s right stressed “timing, timing, timing, my darling,” before winking at Castiel. Pamela Barnes sat on the other end, smiling lasciviously at both of them. She agreed with Balthazar that the musicality was the biggest problem, but added that Castiel needed to get his legs higher on his kicks and flicks. This was followed by a long look at Castiel’s legs that even made Dick uncomfortable. Fergus Crowley, the head judge and sometimes traditional to a fault, just sighed and concluded, “it just wasn’t working for me.”

Dick ushered them up to the skybox where they were pulled over to Jody Mills in a blue evening gown. “You two looked really great out there. Some harsh words from the judges—how do you think that will impact your performance next week?”

“We just have to keep working,” Dean replied for the both of them, remembering the canned responses he usually pulled out for these interviews, “And really think about what the judges said to get better week after week.”

Jody smiled almost maternally at Dean. “Well, let’s get your scores from the judges.”

The judges held up their sparkly silver-glitter encrusted paddles, and Dean fought back a grimace—6’s from Balthazar, Pam and Cassie, and a 5 from Crowley. Dean tried not to cringe visibly at the 5—scores were never very high on the first night, but a 5 was embarrassingly bad.

After Jody turned them loose, Dean and Castiel watched the rest of the show together in relative silence. They clapped and cheered for the other couples, but Dean stopped trying to discuss the other couples’ dancing with Castiel.

As soon as the cameras were off and the crowd started dispersing, Castiel was gone. Dean hoped to catch him dropping off his mic with the sound people, or taking off his costume in wardrobe, but it was like Castiel had just teleported off the soundstage. Still in costume, Dean headed out to the parking lot, hoping to catch Castiel before he left for the night. As soon as he spotted Castiel’s hideous champagne colored ‘78 Lincoln Continental, still parked and its owner nowhere in sight, Dean ran over to the car. He braced his hands on the roof, the warm vinyl under his hands assuring him that it was real and he hadn’t missed Castiel, as he tried to catch his breath.

“What are you doing here?” 

Dean dragged his hand over his face, collecting himself before he turned around to confront Castiel. Castiel had changed into the rehearsal clothes he’d worn in the morning, and all his make up had been scrubbed off. Castiel may have exhaustion written in the slump of his body, but he also looked like pissed enough to shake it off.

Dean’s own anger flared at Castiel’s expression. “What’s your issue, Cas?”

“It’s nothing, Dean,” Castiel’s face went from angry to blank. He fidgeted where he stood, transferring his bag so that the hand holding his car keys was free, but his face remained as unreadable as ever. “I’m just going to go.”

Castiel moved to walk by Dean and get in his car, but Dean grabbed shoulder to turn him around. “What happened out there?” Dean asked intensely, forcing Castiel to make eye contact with him, “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Cas sighed, his gaze slipping to somewhere around Dean’s elbow, “I’m not a dancer and I didn’t dance well. There’s nothing more to it.”

“I’m just confused,” Dean said and let Cas go. He ran his hand through his hair and continued, more to himself than to Castiel, “Rehearsal went perfectly.”

Castiel scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, the rehearsal where you left me for hours and barely said anything to me after we danced. If you don’t want to dance with me, you should just say so and I’ll withdraw.”

Dean balked. He didn’t leave Castiel for the whole rehearsal, did he? He talked with Aaron for a while, danced some, joked around with Victor and Jo, but he couldn’t have been gone that long. He remembered Victor and Jo both saying they had to run to find their partners, but he supposed he had drug his feet a little getting back to Castiel.

Dean dropped his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, man,” he mumbled into this hands.

Castiel blinked, surprised by the sudden apology. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeated, “I told you that _we_ —” he gestured to the space between them, “have to be solid and I let you down.”

A moment of silence passed between them as Dean figured Castiel was processing his apology.

“So, can we start over? Try again?”

Castiel nodded slowly, accepting the apology and Dean leaned back on his car, breathing a sigh of relief.

“I just need you to move,” Castiel said, smiling slightly and pushing on Dean’s shoulder, “I can’t drive with you leaning on my car—at least not in any way that wouldn’t injure you.”

Dean returned a smile and pushed himself off the car. 

“So we’re good?” Dean asked anxiously, “You’re gonna show up tomorrow morning, right?”

“I’ll be there, Dean,” Castiel replied, “I’m your partner, after all.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So,” Dean said as he clapped his hands together. The loud slap echoed around their practice studio and jolted Castiel awake, his eyes flying open in alarm. He wasn’t used to this practice and performance schedule, and it was taking a toll on his sleep. Dean spoke to Castiel, but he cheated out to the camera in a practiced pose. Castiel, on the other hand, knew he was hunching more than he should. He might’ve been on camera plenty of times—and known how to behave under its cold one-eyed stare—but the constant scrutiny of _Ballroom Superstars_ made him want to protect himself in the little ways he could.

“We’re dancing contemporary to your jam this week for ‘My Jam Monday’,” Dean said more to the camera than to Castiel, “so what’s your jam, Castiel?”

If he knew Ruby wouldn’t kill him, Castiel would have rolled his eyes. Ruby’s job was to take the footage of day-to-day practices and behind the scenes conversations and turn them into engaging television. What that usually translated to was her relentlessly prodding Castiel with questions she knew would push his buttons in endless interviews, and trying to worm in on his private conversations with Dean and occasionally with Hannah. She also spent a lot of energy manufacturing ‘moments’ that would give their package a narrative thread or tie their rehearsal to that week’s theme.

The reveal of their week two song for the cameras had been somewhat scripted and they’d run through their ‘lines’ a few times, but even with Ruby’s death stare and her insistence that he “behave—or else,” Castiel found it difficult to sound convincing.

“My jam is _[American Oxygen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ao8cGLIMtvg)_ ,” Castiel read from the label on the CD, “by, um, … ree-hah-na—”

“Ok stop,” Ruby interjected, “Castiel this is supposed to be _your_ jam, you should know how to say ‘Rihanna’.” Castiel barely stopped himself for snapping at Ruby, before she rubbed her temples and turned to Dean, “I’m going to go work on other things. Just get him to say the fucking singer’s name right, and we’ll get it in post.”

Ruby marched out the door and Castiel shot a pained look toward Dean. “I do _not_ like that woman,” he whispered.

Dean let out a raucous laugh and shook his head. “Yeah, can’t say I’m a huge fan,” Dean whispered back, “but she’s probably the most competent line producer the show has. One season, I had Becky—” at her name, Dean trailed off and shuddered like he was trying to shake off the memory.

“Dean,” Castiel said, frustration creeping into his voice, “this isn’t ‘my jam.’ I’ve never even heard this song before. Who is ... Rihanna?” Castiel wasn’t as pop-culture illiterate as Dean thought he was, but most of his pop-culture knowledge was a little out of date. Everything he’d ever known about pop music or summer blockbusters had come from Anna or Uriel or Inias when they were serving together, and after resigning his commission, he hadn’t exactly kept up with old friends. After all, he didn’t need to know who was topping the charts if there wasn’t anyone to talk to about it.

“I thought you were just fucking with Ruby,” Dean said with a shake of his head, “How do you not know who Rihanna is?”

Instead of replying, Castiel shot Dean his best withering glare. He imagined that he would know one of her songs if he heard it—when Anna would get to be in charge of the radio, it was always the Top 40 station—but he was too tired of Dean’s surprised judgment to explain all of that.

“Fine fine.” Dean threw his hands up. “Changing a song is _hell_ , so you’ll need to just _pretend_ that this’s your jam.” Dean walked over to Castiel’s bag and grabbed his phone from where it was sitting on the top. He held out the phone to Castiel and continued, “And I suggest dowloadin’ this song, learnin’ the words—” he tapped the phone for emphasis, “and mouthin’ along while we dance like your life depends on it.”

Castiel looked down at his phone. “It’s all so fake,” he said dejectedly.

Dean stretched his shoulder, pulling his arm across his torso, and shrugged. “It’s TV. What can I say?”

Castiel continued to scowl at his phone, but did as Dean recommended. After his purchase, he joined Dean at the barre on the mirrored wall. Dean had one one leg up on the barre, bent over to touch his toes, and Castiel felt sympathetic twinge in his hamstrings at Dean’s impressive stretch. The stretch also showed off the tones muscles of Dean’s legs, a strength and elegance Castiel couldn’t help but admire.

Castiel shook his head and refocused from appreciating Dean’s body to answering his rhetorical question.

“I know that _Dean_ ,” he said, though he didn’t like the slight petulance he could hear in his own voice, “but I gave Ruby three or four songs that could actually be called ‘my jam’ and the producers just—”

Dean’s head popped up. “Like what?” Castiel stopped mid-sentence, mouth still open and waiting to form the next word, and Dean explained before Castiel could continue, “What was one of the songs you picked?”

“Um,” Castiel hesitated. He might’ve not known that much about Dean, but he knew that Dean had very specific ideas about what was and wasn’t good music. He thought of the titles he had given Ruby and opted for the one that was probably the _least_ offensive to Dean’s standards. “ _[Believe it or Not](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4JCehDOy54)_?”

Dean blinked and shook his head like he was trying to shake loose something stuck in his ear. “The theme from … _Greatest American Hero_?” Dean grimaced. 

“What?” Castiel asked indignantly, “It’s a perfectly good pop song. And I like the words and it’s catchy.”

“Well,” Dean grinned, coming out of his stretch and moving to stand by Castiel, “can’t argue with that.”

Castiel grumbled, “I just don’t know why they didn’t pick one of my songs.” Dean moved behind Castiel and bent down to guide his leg into an ankle exercise.

“Maybe they weren’t good for dancing like _Believe_ —” Dean started under his breath, but Castiel cut him off with a serious look thrown over his shoulder. Dean cleared his throat, continuing more diplomatically, as he adjusted Castiel hips, “Or maybe they didn’t clear legal. Or maybe even Rihanna’s people wanted to promote the song.” 

Castiel shrugged concedingly. Dean put his hands on Castiel’s lower back along the spine, and slightly adjusted Castiel’s posture. Castiel gasped softly, suppressing a shudder at the touch, but Dean seemed too intent on frowning at Castiel’s feet to notice. 

Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched so gently by another human, and it made him want to lean into the contact, rather than hold the posture Dean had put him in. He didn’t realize how much he had needed contact with another person until he’d gone without for so long. Hannah’s pats on the shoulder and firm handshakes, while somewhat reassuring, couldn’t make up for the easy, if sometimes ridiculous, physicality that had come with brothers- and sisters-in-arms. He smiled briefly, remembering everything from the hugs shared with his co-pilots to the headlock all five foot-two of Muriel’d put him in once when she claimed he was being ‘exceptionally pigheaded.’

“We don’t always understand the ways of the people in charge,” Dean continued, waving his hand vaguely upward before moving Castiel’s left foot and ending Castiel’s train of thought, “you don’t think this song is _your_ jam, and I don’t think contemporary has any place in a ballroom, but here we are.”

Dean stood up and finished guiding Castiel through warm ups and exercises for his feet and ankles. As soon as Dean was convinced that Castiel was sufficiently warmed up, he tested Castiel’s flexibility and balance with a few pliés and retirés. 

Dean demonstrated a contemporary plié in first position, legs together and feet turned slightly out, and then a plié in second position, legs shoulder width apart. He made Castiel do both pliés until Castiel’s quadriceps burned, and then pushed him into a retiré. One leg up and bent, Castiel felt like a flamingo—and after all those pliés, like an especially wobbly flamingo. They went through a few drills like this, forcing Castiel to stop in demi-plié and stretch, or stretch in retiré, or move from one extreme pose to another, until it was lunch time.

As they walked—or in Castiel’s case, staggered—toward the communal kitchen to grab their lunches, Castiel peeked in on Benny and Lisa practicing their foxtrot in their own studio space. They moved together seemingly effortlessly, gracefully stepping through turn after turn. Castiel felt a stab of envy. It seemed like every step of the way for him was fraught with endless challenges and difficulties, but for everyone else, it was simple and easy. 

Dean dragged Castiel away and back toward the kitchen, wagging his finger playfully and saying “no snooping, Cas,” but Castiel saw Dean’s gaze linger on Benny and Lisa too, if just for a moment. Briefly, Castiel wondered if Dean felt the same way about the other couples as he did.

Dean ended any introspection when he grabbed their simple boxed lunches of chicken pasta from the fridge and threw them in the microwave, before gracefully sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. Castiel would have loved to say that he managed the same grace, but his descent into sitting had a little more collapsing to it that he usually enjoyed.

Dean handed Castiel his portion of the food and a fork, and they ate in silence as Dean inhaled his food. He finished before Castiel was even halfway through his meal, and once Dean noticed that, he blushed and looked away.

“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ve been thinking about the concept for this number, and I think we should play off your military background.”

Castiel shook his head. “I can’t wear any type of uniform. If I do, it falls under Navy uniform regulations.”

Dean nodded, in the distracted way Castiel figured meant he was figuring something out.

“Plus,” Castiel interjected before Dean could fully form his next idea, “I’m not sure reminding everyone I’m a veteran week after week is the way to go.”

Dean digested that information before looking Castiel straight in the eyes. “Let me tell you the truth of all of this. The winner isn’t the person who is _only_ a good dancer—I’ve seen the best dancers go home long before the semi-finals. You have to make the audience love you, make them want to vote for _you_ week after week. And yeah, part of that is getting better and better at dancing, but you won’t have time to get better if you don’t hook them _now_.”

Dean punctuated his sentence by poking a finger in Castiel’s chest. “So we play up this idea of who you are, this ex-military guy who fights for the American Dream or whatever Rihanna’s singin’ about, and turn it on its head later. It’s called _growth_ and the audience eats this shit up. You gotta trust me, man.”

It was Castiel’s turn to think. Dean had been on the show long enough to know which strategies worked and which ones backfired. He should be able to trust this man’s expertise. When he was in the Navy, he always relied on the expertise of other pilots, engineers, mechanics, air traffic controllers, and especially those in charge. 

Still, Castiel couldn’t help but feel something niggling at the back of his mind. After the events leading up to his resignation, it was still hard for him to put his trust in someone else. It had taken Hannah months to earn what Dean needed from Castiel _now_.

“Okay,” Castiel sighed, hoping he made the right decision, “I trust you. What were you thinking then?”

—

Dean made it to his Studio City home after rehearsal with plenty of time to reheat last night’s pizza before his weekly video chat with Sam. His two-bedroom, two-bathroom house was a little more modest than those of some of his fellow pros, but he’d fallen in love with the thousand square foot 1920’s California Bungalow and it’s amazing canyon views; he’d been only too happy to empty out his savings account for the down payment after just a season on _Ballroom Superstars_. It was the first house that he owned, all on his own, and after a few years of on and off renovations, it was finally (pretty much) exactly how he’d wanted it.

He’d completely redone the kitchen and converted the basement workshop into a dance studio, but, for an old house, it had been in surprisingly good shape. He still planned on taking on a few other home improvement plans—like finally cleaning up the attic bonus room and turning it into a guest suite. Or retiling the shower in the master bath. Or knocking out the deck and stairs that led from his kitchen to the backyard, and rebuilding the whole thing. You know, weekend projects.

Dean pulled his leftovers out of the oven, grabbing the glass of water he’d poured for himself, and headed to the couch in the living room. He cleared away the clutter that had accumulated over the past few days, making a spot to put down a placemat and his dinner. 

He checked his watch as he took a bite of pizza, waiting anxiously for 7:00 pm. Sam was usually freakishly prompt with his calls, but there’d been times before when he’d been called to duty in the middle of the night, and it’s not like he could pause in putting on tactical gear to send Dean a message that he wouldn’t make the call. For being the “rebel” of the family (Dad’s words, not Dean’s), Sam was a surprising stickler for punctuality. Of course, as far as Dean understood it, Army bootcamp generally went better if you were already good at adhering to the strict timetable. 

Dean laughed to himself as he remembered the time after basic training when Sam’d briefly come home to Ellen and Bobby’s in Sioux Falls before being deployed to Iraq.

Sam had walked through the door, military regulation haircut and all, and Dean’d just about keeled over from laughter.

“For once,” Dean’d told Sam, as Sam scowled fiercely, “you have a _sensible_ haircut.” Ellen cuffed the back of his head for that, but after years of teasing Sam about his long and floppy hair, the buzzcut was just _too perfect_ an opportunity to pass up. 

Since being discharged from the Army, Sam’d grown his hair back out—the private military contractor he worked for didn’t care so much about hair regs—and now, it was long enough to pull into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Dean looked at his watch again and recalculated the time difference between LA and Kabul—or at least the general Kabul vicinity. Sam may have called at the same time every week for the past two years, but Dean still compulsively added eleven and a half hours to the time.

Dean settled himself on his couch, his laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of him, and tried not to fidget too much. The notification popped up from Skype that Sam was calling, and Dean nearly knocked over his water in his haste to hit the green telephone button to accept the call.

Sam’s face popped up on the screen, still a little weary from sleep, but otherwise the same as the last time Dean’d seen him. Sam was wearing a black t-shirt (and probably his usual DCU pants, though Dean couldn’t see past Sam’s waist), and his hair was pulled back away from his face. He looked happy and healthy, and Dean beamed as soon as he saw him. Living on opposite sides of the world for most of their adult lives had its challenges, but seeing Sam happy, and happy with his life, almost made it worth it.

“Kill anyone this week?” Dean asked in his usual jocular manner. Sam worked as security for a U.S.-made base of some sort, so his job was more stand around a look intimidating and sometimes detain someone than fight people in the streets. But Dean knew that Sam’d been ordered to use lethal force before and probably would be again.

Sam rolled his eyes, but kept smiling. “Yeah, Dean, that’s still not funny.”

“You know I’m _hilarious_ ,” Dean said, laughing at his own joke and Sam’s reaction. They easily fell into their usual banter: Sam asked after Ellen and Bobby and Jo, and Dean asked about Sam’s week. This usually took up most of Sam’s time before work, but this time, Sam skipped asking after their family.

“We watched the episode last night,” Sam said instead. Dean groaned; he knew a bunch of the other guys on the base were avid fans who watched his show religiously with Sam. But he had hoped that Sam would have to leave before bringing it up or just forget altogether. No such luck.

“Your partner’s a guy,” Sam stated, but the way he raised an eyebrow, it was clear he was angling for more information.

Dean dropped his head in his hands and groaned. “They thought it would make good TV. Thing was, they didn’t consult either of us before pairing us up.” 

Sam’s eyes widened. “But y’all looked so normal when you met for the first time.”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a sigh, leaning back on his couch, “that was take _two_.” Dean held up two fingers and waggled them. 

Sam mouthed an ‘oh’, before looking to the side and clearing his throat. “Also,” Sam started, a little reluctantly, “I think you should probably know that one of the guys here—you remember me talking about Uriel?—yeah, he _knew_ Castiel.” 

Dean sat up straight in his seat. Sam had mentioned Uriel before, and from what Dean knew, he was a great big bag of syphilitic dicks. Uriel’d been less than honorably discharged from the Navy due to some kind of scheme that almost smacked of treason, but Sam hadn’t known all the details.

“Apparently,” Sam continued, “They were co-pilots way back when—flew Prowlers together and everything. And he had a lot to say about your partner.” Sam paused and a pained look crossed his face as he thought about what next to say. The bottom of Dean’s stomach dropped out; Sam wouldn’t look this nervous if what Uriel had to say was any good.

“I mean, it could be worse,” Sam said, putting up his hands defensively, “But Uriel said that maybe he caused a lot of his own problems? Like, Castiel had issues with authority—that kind of stuff. He also said Castiel was an amazing pilot, but maybe not the best, um, team player. Like, he _used_ people to get what he wanted, all the while keeping things from his team.” Sam winced as he finished his sentence, and Dean frowned contemplatively.

Some of what Sam said wasn’t all that surprising. At his chattiest, Castiel was downright taciturn, and when he did speak, he tended to cut straight to the heart of the matter. Castiel rarely sugar-coated things, and Dean actually admired him for that, but straightforwardness and honesty weren’t exactly the same thing. And even being honest doesn’t automatically make someone a good partner.

Because this thing he and Castiel are doing—it’s a mix of teaching and choreography and crucially, _teamwork_. If Castiel wasn’t 100% invested in their partnership, their whole chance at winning would be shot. Dean may have won a few titles back in the day, but the best choreography could never make up for bad partnership.

“Okay sorry to drop that on you and leave,” Sam said, “But I’ve gotta go, but I’ll catch you next week.” Dean gave Sam a curt wave and a “goodbye” before hanging up the call. 

Sam’s reluctance to mention Uriel’s issues with Castiel definitely meant that Uriel’d had quite a bit more to say. One one hand, this made Dean want to figure out what made the guy tick. The day had gone well between him and Castiel, but Dean still couldn’t help but feeling that things weren’t completely settled between them. Other than learning that Castiel had a shitty taste in music ( _Believe it or Not_? Seriously?) and impressively firm and well-defined calves and thighs, Dean wasn’t any closer to figuring the guy out than he was the three weeks before. 

On the other hand, if what Sam had to say was any indication, who knew what he’d uncover. 

He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts to find Castiel’s number. He quickly typed, _We gotta meet after rehearsal tomorrow away from prying eyes. You free?_

He only had to wait a few seconds for Castiel’s response: _Yes. Where?_

Dean chuckled at Castiel’s response. Apparently he was as terse in writing as he was in speaking.

_My house. See you at 7._ He then sent Castiel his address and the best way to get there before before looking up articles on opening pathways to communication—rolling his eyes as he wrote a few tips down.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel arrived exactly at 6:59. He stepped out of his car and took a good, long look at Dean’s house. Castiel thought that it was the type that most people would call ‘quaint.’ It was old, though well taken care of, and Castiel guessed that the exterior had been painted its current olive-green in the past year or so. Castiel walked down a stone-paved walk and under an arched arbor covered in fragrant vines and rung the doorbell. Barely half a minute passed before Dean opened the door, only slightly visibly anxious, and invited him in.

Dean was wearing jeans and a plaid button-down pulled over a t-shirt. Castiel was sure that the insignia on the shirt related to some rock band or another, but he feared that asking would set Dean off on (another) rant about Castiel living under a rock. 

Instead, he opted to ask Dean for a tour of the house. Dean smiled shyly before leading Castiel through the foyer and into the living room-slash-dining room area. He showed Castiel the dining room table he’d built before he moved out west, and then dragged Castiel into the kitchen to show off the floor he had tiled himself. 

Dean explained that when he’d moved in it’d looked like the appliances had last been replaced in the 1970s, and while the cabinets were original to the house, they sported a several coats of Harvest Gold paint that took ages to remove. Over the next year, he installed state-of-the-art appliances and refinished the cabinets. He also replaced the cheap laminate countertops with a dark grey granite and switched out the tiny, bathroom-sized porcelain sink for a deep stainless steel apron sink with two bowls and an industrial faucet.

“Can’t get a better sink,” Dean explained, caressing it lovingly and practically beaming, “and the gas range is professional quality. Next time you’re over, I’ll cook you something.” A funny look passed over Dean’s face, like he hadn’t expected the words to come out of his mouth. 

“I look forward to it,” Castiel said and he meant it. There was something so sweet about the thought of Dean cooking dinner for the two of them, that Castiel felt a small warmth bloom in his chest. 

Dean smiled, and Castiel thought he saw a hint of a blush color his cheeks. Dean coughed awkwardly and ushered Castiel out the back door and down the steps to the basement. The house had been built into a small hill, so only the main floor could be seen from the front of the house. But from in the back, the patio and yard were even with the basement floor.

Dean told Castiel that some time in the ninety years since the house had been built someone had turned the basement into a dark, dusty and creepy workshop. He first replaced the lighting and ductwork, making the room much lighter and easier to breathe in. Then he ripped up the uneven stone floor and had a beautiful hardwood installed, along with mirrors and a barre along one wall. It’d taken almost six months to get the basement turned into a serviceable dance space, but it had been well worth the wait—especially if it meant Dean didn’t have to rent time at a studio across town anymore.

Castiel was amazed by the space. Dean had taken down the old garage-style door that provided access to the basement, and put a [folding outswing door](http://www.andersenwindows.com/products/folding-outswing-door/) in its place, so that when the doors were open, the room extended out to the patio and beyond. He was so impressed by the room that he nearly crashed into one of the support beams, and he thanked Dean for pulling him away just in time.

Smiling, Dean led Castiel by the elbow to an old matching couch and recliner set in the corner. Castiel gently sat himself down in the couch, and Dean plopped into the recliner in a practiced motion. The chair let out a loud creak as Dean’s weight settled on the ancient springs and gears.

He started to recline, but seemed to think better of it, moving so that he was leaning toward Castiel, elbows on his knees. “So, I bet you’re wondering why I wanted to meet here,” Dean started, but Castiel shook his head.

“You wanted to meet to talk about something you can’t—or won’t—say on camera,” Castiel said.

“Right,” Dean nodded before continuing, “Dancing is about connection—connection to the music and connection to your partner. When you dance, you are telling a story, sometimes a literal story, and sometimes just how you feel—how the music _makes_ you feel. We got slammed on our connection last week and if we’re gonna win, we _have_ to fix that, but—” He then hesitated like he wasn’t sure how to say whatever he wanted to say next. Castiel wondered if Dean was finally going to tell him that he’d rather not dance this season than dance with Castiel, when Dean blurted out, “I don’t know the first thing about you.”

Castiel was taken aback. They’d talked plenty of times in rehearsal and while lunch eating together—he certainly hadn’t been hiding anything from Dean. But, to be fair, he also was operating under the assumption that Dean _knowing_ him better wouldn’t improve their partnership. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Dean huffed, arms gesticulating wildly, “I don’t know where you grew up or if you have any siblings, or hell, what your favorite ice cream flavor is.”

Castiel peered at him silently, trying to figure out if Dean had some kind of hidden agenda.

Dean threw up his arms. “Fine, you don’t have to tell me anything,” he said before mumbling, “this was a stupid idea anyway.” Castiel felt his heart break a little at Dean’s expression. Dean wanted to win so bad, and if Dean thought this was the way to do it, it wouldn’t hurt Castiel to play along.

“Chicago, only child, birthday cake with sprinkles,” Castiel said succinctly, a grin tugging on the corner of his mouth, “you?”

Dean smiled. “Lawrence, Kansas, then Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I have a younger brother—name’s Sam and,” Dean paused and screwed up his face is mock concentration, “it’s a tie between rocky road and good old fashioned vanilla in a hot fudge sundae.”

Castiel chuckled at Dean’s response. For an instant, their eyes met and Castiel couldn’t look away. There was something earnest and magnetic in Dean’s look, but also an insecurity that surprised Castiel. 

“So,” Dean said, breaking eye contact and coughing. He leaned back in his recliner and put up his footrest with a deafening creak from the chair, “Chicago’s home for you, then?”

“Not really,” Castiel replied, shaking his head, “I’ve only been back a handful of times since I graduated high school.” He thought of the trips back to his mother’s house during summer breaks, after flight school, between deployments, and none of them felt like returning home. He wondered when the last time that house had been his home, and figured it was probably right before he left for boarding school, saying goodbye to his mother for the last time. 

“Then, I was stationed out of Japan from the time I graduated flight school until—,” Castiel paused, looking for the right words to describe his departure from the military, “until I left. Does that count as home?” He looked up at Dean expectantly.

“I think if you have to ask,” Dean answered with a sad smile, “the answer’s probably no.” Castiel nodded, agreeing. Living in Japan had been wonderful; he’d met so many fantastic people and seen so many sides and aspects of humanity he never expected to see. But while he may miss trips to Tokyo or Kyoto or Osaka on his days off, his small, spartan home on the base hadn’t felt much like home either.

“And what about after you got back stateside?” Dean asked.

Castiel hesitated and looked down toward his shoelaces. “I—I worked at a Gas-n-Sip in a small town called Rexford in Idaho.” Castiel felt the weight of all the questions Dean wasn’t asking and sighed, “There was no place else for me to go, so I drove until I couldn’t drive anymore. I was there for about six months.” That’s how long it’d taken for Hannah to find him. It took three more months for her to convince him to write down his experiences and another almost six months to convince him to file the lawsuit. He often wondered if it would have been better if Hannah’d never found him. 

Dean nodded. “But why did you leave, then? If you didn’t have any plans?”

Castiel laughed darkly to himself. “I wish I could say that resigning my commission was the hardest decision I’d ever made,” Castiel started, “but I essentially did it on a whim. By the time the paperwork had all been processed, I was too shocked to believe that I had actually done it. It didn’t even really hit me until I stepped back on U.S. soil.”

“But ... _why_?”

“You’ve seen the interviews, you know why,” Castiel responded dryly, looking up to meet Dean’s gaze.

“I know the official, cleaned up for TV version,” Dean said, “but I don’t know _your_ version.”

Castiel sighed and leaned back on the couch. He stared up at the ceiling and recited his story robotically: “I’d always wanted to fly planes. My whole family’s military, so it was always a given that I would be too. I went to a Navy college prep high school and then the Naval Academy, and I graduated top of my class at both. I finished flight school and got my assignment with the VAQ-141 and flew electronic warfare aircrafts for almost a decade.”

He sat up and looked at Dean. “You have to understand that Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was signed into law just _two_ years before I started high school and all that time, from puberty on, I _knew_ that I wasn’t _exclusively_ attracted to women. I had to make a decision, and my goal of flying was just more important to me than my personal life. So, I kept my sexuality a secret and didn’t pursue _any_ romantic relationships; it was better to just push that part of myself aside for the time.”

Castiel sighed again, and he could feel an anger welling up in him. “I waited _six months_ after the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell was certified— _just in case_. But my CO was …”

Dean interjected, smiling wryly, “A bigoted asshole?”

Castiel smiled slightly in return, “… that’s one way to put it. He grounded me, stuck me behind a desk, and hoped I’d just fall by the wayside.” Castiel balled up his fists, remembering the way Captain Adler had looked at him with mock pity when he’d assigned Castiel to desk duty. “I just couldn’t stand it; I didn’t last more than a few months before I stormed out of that office, filed the paperwork for my resignation, and that was it.” Castiel made a gesture as if he were wiping something off his hands.

“It was my _whole_ life, Dean. And I pretty much gave it all up, maybe gave up the chance to _ever_ fly again, for something that seems … so _small_ now.”

“Cas...” Dean said sympathetically and reached out to put a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel help up a hand before Dean could continue. “I had been quiet for so long, endured it _all_ for so long, but I couldn’t go backwards.” Castiel shook his head. “Even knowing all of that, I still wonder if it really was the right decision.”

Castiel could tell that Dean didn’t know what to say. If Castiel were in his shoes, he knew he would feel the same way. How do you know if someone you’ve just met made the right decision?

“Let’s run through the dance,” Dean said abruptly and Castiel frowned at him.

“Now?” He asked incredulously.

“We just can walk through it, but I want to tap into your emotions,” Dean explained, starting to limber up a little, “The judges like to see vulnerability in contemporary, and I have a feeling that’s going to be tough for you to you just pull out of thin air.”

Dean pulled Castiel out of his seat on the couch and pushed him into an easy stretch, “When we do the dance for real, I want you to remember how you’re feeling right now—”

“Right now, I’m confused,” Castiel said, deadpan.

“Shut up,” Dean said, rolling his eyes playfully, “You know what I mean.”

Castiel nodded, still not really sure what Dean wanted from him, and started the song on his iPhone. They had a couple false starts, but once they got into the dance, it wasn’t like when they’d danced before. He _did_ feel that connection that had been missing, and he put all of his regrets and bitterness and sadness into each move. He caught glimpses of his face in the mirrors along the wall and he barely recognized himself.

They ended their dance in their poses right after the final lift: chests nearly touching, Castiel’s hands on Dean’s hips and eyes locked. Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes and saw his own emotions reflected back. In that moment, he realized that Dean had not only heard everything that Castiel’d told him, but _understood_ him.

They both were panting, still just inches apart. Dean licked his lips and the motion drew Castiel’s eyes downward. Castiel realized he’d probably stared at Dean’s lips half a second too long when he looked back up at Dean’s eyes and saw surprise there.

Castiel stepped back. “It—it’s getting late. I should probably get back to my condo.”

Dean nodded and took his own step back, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

—

Dean barely held it together through the “goodbye” and “drive home safe” portion of the evening. So much of Castiel’s life, of his experiences, were shockingly familiar to Dean. From the absent father (he’d said “mother’s house” enough times to make _that_ clear) to the repressed sexuality, Castiel’s story was a pretty clear mirror of his own. 

And when they danced … 

Dean had told Castiel time and time again that dancing is about connection, but Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that kind of connection with another person. 

Dean tried not to think of their dance as he got ready for bed, but his mind kept replaying the feeling of Castiel’s strong hands and sure hold on Dean’s hips, and seeing himself reflected in Castiel’s eyes.

Dean screwed his eyes shut and tried to think of things to distract him—like Sam naked or Ellen and Bobby kissing—and just ended up grossing himself out. 

He went to bed, his mind still jumbled, and his heart still hammering in his chest. He hoped that he’d wake up and the memory of Castiel’s touch would be gone, but he wasn’t optimistic. That feeling had been seared into his skin, like a permanent handprint on his shoulder, his hip, his back. 

He had to be professional, and if that meant ignoring the way Castiel made him feel, he’d do it—though maybe starting first thing in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean watched Castiel stretch in the practice studio, his mind a million miles away. 

Castiel was his usual self, quiet and a little closed off, as he came in, sat down on the hardwood, and began warming up. He might not have done anything different from every other morning they’d practiced together, but Dean didn’t quite know what to make of him anymore. 

He’d seen Castiel open up—both in his basement studio and during their contemporary on Monday night’s show. He’d been raw and vulnerable and Dean’d seen too much of himself in lonely look in his eyes. But then, as soon as the music was over, Castiel shut back up like a bear trap, and Dean was left reeling. He couldn’t figure out if Castiel was just the most repressed son of a bitch he’d ever known, or just the best actor.

Castiel’d more or less admitted that he was in it for himself—everyone had to be to a certain extent. But Dean had no idea how selfish Castiel would be as the season progressed. Castiel’d obviously done something to make Uriel doubt his character, and now Dean was filed with the same doubt.

Could Castiel be trusted as a partner? Would he use Dean to get his message out and then throw in the towel? 

Dean’s heart stopped. What if Castiel didn’t _care_? Didn’t care about winning, didn’t care about _Dean_ , didn’t care about dancing—Dean couldn’t decide which was worst.

Dean knew he had his own selfish streak. Dean wanted to win so badly that he’d only ever thought of himself holding the Mirrorball, not who would be holding it with him. But if this was his possibly his last chance, could he see Castiel celebrating with him, confetti in their hair as they gripped the trophy tight?

Dean shook out his whole body, trying to shake loose these doubts that plagued him. Castiel looked over at him, eyebrow raised, and Dean brushed him off. “Just a chill, you know?”

Castiel nodded and Dean helped him off the floor. He started teaching Castiel the tango frame for their week three dance to _[Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJ5H8DsoPeY)_. Castiel looked at Dean like he’d grown a second head when he started explaining the frame and Dean bit back a curse. With a contemporary in the second week, Dean felt cheated out a week of working on ballroom fundamentals. 

However, for someone who’d never danced before, once Castiel knew where his arms needed to be, he had one of the better frames of any celebrity Dean’d danced with. Castiel had the arm strength to hold his arms up and straight for long periods of time, and the core strength for his posture. His biggest issue was with spacing between them. He had a tendency to stick his butt out, rather than getting his hips under his shoulders, and that caused all sorts of issues with keeping the right amount of distance between them.

“Cas,” Dean said exasperated, breaking hold to move behind Castiel and adjust his whole posture. “This is the tango; hold is important.” He came back around to stand in front of Castiel. 

“This is my dance space,” he gestured to the area right in front of his body with a smirk, “and that’s your dance space.” He pointed to the area directly in front of Castiel, bounded by Castiel’s arms. Castiel just looked confused, and Dean guessed he’d never seen _[Dirty Dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-sYKI4A3uhc)_. They’d have to remedy that before the end of the show.

“But Dean,” Castiel said solemnly, “I thought that the tango was all about passion and bodies …” he searched for the right word, waving his hand to the space between them, “touching and legs intertwining.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re thinking of the _Argentine_ tango. We’re dancing a tango.”

Castiel frowned. “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Dean laughed and Castiel’s frown deepened. “Sorry,” Dean said, clearing his throat awkwardly, “But, no. The Argentine tango’s a Latin dance—a social dance really. The tango, at least the tango we dance, is an American Smooth tango. That’s a ballroom dance.”

Castiel’s face remained unchanged. He clearly projected, _and the difference is?_

“The difference is, well,” Dean started, scratching the back of his head, “A lot. I mean, they have the same origins, but the American tango has more solid _rules_ , I guess. It’s still looser than the International Standard tango, which doesn’t allow for breaking hold, but it’s got a lot of European and Hollywood influences that the Argentine tango doesn’t have.”

“Okay,” Castiel said dubiously, still not entirely convinced, “I guess that makes sense.”  

“If we get far enough, we may dance the Argentine tango, and then it’ll be clear.” Dean picked up Castiel’s arms again, and pulled him into hold. He lead Castiel through the first few steps of their routine when Castiel asked another question.

“When you danced competitively,” Castiel started, slightly hesitant, still dancing through the opening steps before dipping Dean, “did you dance the tango?”

Dean came up from his dip, a little off, “Yeah, I did. Now, back to one; your posture’s better, but still a little hinky.”

Dean and Castiel walked back to their starting positions. “Okay, head up, one, two, three—”

“When did you start dancing?” Castiel interrupted.

Dean answered, annoyed, “When I was a kid, alright? Now one, two—”

“Hannah told me that you were a ballroom champion, but I don’t really know what that means.”

Dean dropped his arms with a heavy sigh. He started walking to the wall with the purple steps, and Castiel and the cameras followed him. He sat heavily down on the lowest step, stretching his legs out in front of him and reclining his torso on the higher steps as Castiel perched on the step next to him and rested his forearms on his knees. 

“I guess it’s only fair that you know some shit about me after I made you spill your guts last week,” Dean started, talking to the ceiling, “I’ll answer a few questions, but make this quick—we’ve got dancing to do.”

“So you were a ballroom champion?” Castiel prodded, leaning over Dean’s torso to make eye contact.

“Yes,” Dean answered as he sat up, “Jo and I were World Ballroom Dance Champions three times when we were teenagers—that means we danced ballroom dances, not salsa, samba, cha-cha-cha, meringue, etc.” Dean ticked off the dances as he listed them. “And we’d been U.S. Champions as adults a couple times before we both came to _Ballroom Superstars_.”

“And Jo was always your partner?”

“For _ages_ ,” he said with a smile. “We—my brother and me, that is—moved from Lawrence up to Sioux Falls when we were kids. Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle were old friends of my parents, and they’d just gotten married and moved out there; it being Bobby’s hometown and all. Ellen was a ballroom champion in her own right, and taught dance in town. So, Jo—that’s Ellen’s daughter—and I, we started dancing together and,” he mimicked brushing something off his hands, “the rest is history.”

Castiel looked pleased by Dean’s answer, but Dean felt guilty for leaving so much out. He could tell Castiel that long before he danced with Jo, he’d been working toward becoming a ballet dancer, just like his mom. But mentioning his mom, even just talking about how skilled she was, how a knee injury ended her career in the corps de ballet of the American Ballet Theatre, would undoubtedly bring up questions about why she wasn’t around anymore. And that would lead to questions about why _Dad_ wasn’t around anymore and that following that train of thought always made him sick to his stomach.

“Do you ever miss it?” Castiel asked, and Dean gave him a questioning look. For a moment, he felt like Castiel had read his mind, had seen everything Dean had been thinking about his long-gone parents, and was asking about them. “Dancing competitively?” Castiel clarified.

Dean shrugged. “From time to time. But this is a much better paying gig, and since I want to open my own studio and teach eventually, it helps having fame and fortune behind me.” Dean gave Castiel a cheeky smile and Castiel returned the smile, though his was tinged with irony. 

“You know, I’m not sure all the ‘fame and fortune’—” Castiel punctuated the phrase with air quotes, “is worth it, when it’s all said and done.”

“Come on,” Dean groaned, “fame and fortune’s not all that bad. Think of all the babes, booze and—” Dean grappled for another word starting with the letter ‘B’, but couldn’t think of one. Before he could come up with a third benefit of a glamorous lifestyle, Castiel cut him off with a dismissive wave.

“I think I was happier before,” Castiel explained, frowning down at his shoes. “When I was in the Navy, I had clear goals and objectives. I never had to guess if I was making the right choice when I was just following orders. Then, life in Rexford was simple and sometimes … challenging—I had to make more of my own decisions than I ever had before. But there was a _dignity_ to the work, and I liked my co-workers, my boss, my neighbors, everybody.”

Dean scowled at him, a little offended by Castiel’s insinuation. Castiel saw Dean’s look, and held up his hands defensively.

“That’s not to say that what you do doesn’t have dignity,” Castiel backpedaled, “but—”

“But as a dancer,” Dean finished Castiel’s sentence, smirking, “I’ve never had to clean a Gas-n-Sip bathroom.”

Castiel grimaced at that; clearly, he’d seen some frightening horrors on bathroom cleaning duty.

“You satisfied now that you know my tragic backstory?” Dean asked, standing up in the process, “Can we dance?”

“Yes, we can dance now.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “And your backstory’s not all that tragic.”

_You wouldn’t say that if you knew the rest_ , Dean thought. He put his hand out to help Castiel up, and Castiel took it. Castiel’s eyes met his for less than a second before Dean looked away, hoping he didn’t look as sad as he felt. Maybe one day Dean could tell Castiel all about his dead mother and missing father, but not here, and definitely not now. Dean could pretend that he just didn’t want to divulge _all_ his secrets in front of a camera, but he knew that wasn’t true. He might have felt a connection with Castiel and started to understand Castiel’s personality quirks, but Sam’s warning from Uriel still rattled around in the back of his mind.

He began teaching Castiel how to lead in hold, but he still couldn’t shake the mixture of guilt and mistrust warring violently in his gut. Guilt, because he felt he should have been able to tell Castiel everything; as far as he knew, Castiel had been completely honest (and a little Wikipedia-stalking and skimming Castiel’s memoir had corroborated what Castiel’d told him). He should be able to be just as honest with Castiel.

But he couldn’t give up the sliver of mistrust of Castiel’s actions and motivations. The guy was as expressive as a brick wall when he wanted to be, and only gave up information if it was pried out of him. He’d even just admitted to absolving himself of certain moral choices, when orders from a superior were involved. What if Hannah or whoever else he was working with started telling Castiel to act up, create drama? Or even try to fake a relationship with Dean to stir up votes? Or just left midseason because they needed him for more important things than dancing?

“Dean,” Castiel said sharply. Dean realized that must’ve been the third or fourth time Castiel’d called his name. “You’re crushing my fingers.”

Dean looked at their clasped hands, his knuckles white as he tightly gripped Castiel’s hand. 

“Sorry,” Dean said, loosening his hold, “I didn’t notice.” Castiel gave Dean and questioning look, but Dean just shook his head. 

“Let’s go again from the top, and I’ll try not to smoosh your fingers this time.” Dean winked, usually charming smile back in place. For a moment, he thought Castiel didn’t buy his act, but the moment passed, and they resumed practicing the tango.

—

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen this movie.”

Castiel rolled his eyes as he opened the door to his condominium. Dean stood in the hallway, a six-pack of beer and a grocery bag in one hand, a DVD case in the other, and a box of Orville Redenbacher’s tucked up under one arm. 

The movie was _City of Angels_ , and Castiel still couldn’t see why Dean was so apparently hurt that Castiel’d never seen it. Despite the star power of its two leads and box office success, it hadn’t been particularly well-received by critics and had never attained cult status. Castiel was fairly certain that if it weren’t for the pop hit juggernaut it spawned, which he and Dean  happened to be dancing a Viennese waltz to this week, the movie would have faded into obscurity.

And he might not have seen this movie but he had heard _[Iris](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdYWuo9OFAw)_ , _thank you very much_.

Dean walked under Castiel’s arm and made his way to the kitchen like he belonged there. And Dean’s comfort in Castiel’s space wasn’t all that surprising. 

Dean’d recently made a habit of following Castiel back to his Beverly Hills highrise just down the street from where the show was filmed. Since Castiel didn’t live in L.A. year-round like most of the other celebs, he had been put up in a swanky condo that the network probably owned expressly for reality show participants’ accommodations. Every two or three days, Dean would show up to Castiel’s roomy two bedroom-one bathroom unit to cook Castiel dinner—“you can’t live on PB&J’s and takeout thai food, Cas!”—or watch TV—“it’s the last episode before a month-long hiatus and if I have to drive all the way home, I’ll miss it”.

This particular movie night was even the second time Dean’d shown up with popcorn, beer and a movie, though at least this time he’d given Castiel a little warning. The first time, Dean’d shown up out of the blue, caught Castiel just getting out of the shower, and made Castiel sit through _Dirty Dancing_. Dean seemed to enjoy the dancing the most, as well as quoting all of what Castiel assumed to be the most well-known lines. 

However, once it was over Dean’d had _no_ interest in discussing the 1960s gender politics of the movie, or Castiel’s excellent point that access to safe, legal abortion and sexual education that relied on scientific fact (and not just abstinence) would have completely changed the movie. Dean also started rolling his eyes when Castiel brought up the hair and costume anachronisms, and seemed pretty close to kicking Castiel out of his own place when he brought up the fact that Baby’s family (and the other campers as well) were most likely Jewish, and the movie didn’t even mention it.

“Come _on_ , Cas,” Dean groaned, “it’s _Swayze_ —just enjoy it.”

Frankly, after all of that, Castiel was surprised Dean wanted to have another movie night. 

“Cas!” Dean shouted from the kitchen over the din of pots and pans, “do you still have those spices I brought over last time?”

Castiel shook his head and walked over to Dean, putting the image of Dean lounging on his black leather couch and saying “nobody puts Baby in the corner” out of his mind.

He directed Dean to where he’d stored the growing stock of non-perishables (all purchased by Dean) and Dean _tsked_ over Castiel’s meager selection. As Dean held up containers of rice and couscous and mentally weighed the merits of each, a terrible thought lept into Castiel’s mind and tendril of anxiety gripped his heart. 

After this next dance, Dean wouldn’t be his partner anymore—at least, not for the next week. The Switch Up was looming, and while Castiel had known it was coming all season, it hadn’t seemed real until Monday night’s show, until Dick and Jody had described all the ways the audience could rip Dean away from Castiel.

“Dean,” Castiel said once, his voice small and far away. Dean didn’t hear him over the rumble of cooking noises, so he cleared his throat and tried again, a little louder.

“Hmm?” Dean said, most of his focus still on lightly stuffing small chickens—or cornish game hens, as Dean’d called them—with spices. 

“What’s going to happen next week?” Castiel asked.

Dean rolled his eyes and put the hens in the oven. He ripped off his oven mitts with a scoff and dropped them on Castiel’s counter.

“We dance with other people,” Dean said, “And then watch everything we’ve built crumble.”

“It can’t be that bad, right?” 

Dean groaned. “We did this two seasons ago,” he said as he leaned against the sink and took a pull from his beer, “and my partner got Michael for a week.”

Dean grimaced, and then shook his head. “Michael’s a great dancer and all, but he’s pretty much as big of a dick as they come. He bullied my partner and badgered her until he destroyed her confidence.”

Castiel felt the blood leave his face. He forced down the fear that made his whole body tingle and his stomach lurch. He and Dean had found a very tenuous balance and he wanted to protect it at all costs. “But then we’ll be back together. Things will go back to the way they were before.”

“I wish,” Dean said, “Last time we pretty much had to start all over again. I had a talk with Michael and the producers afterwards to make sure it wasn’t going to happen again. So even if you get him next week, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

Castiel frowned and Dean dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry too much, man—it’s just a gimmick.” 

Castiel’s frown deepened, but Dean had already turned away to stir the risotto. Dean had told him the same thing about their whole partnership—he’d called it a gimmick, too. But, at least for him, that didn’t make his relationship with Dean any less real. The universe might have contrived to stick them together for financial gain, but he couldn’t imagine having a teacher more suited for him, and Dean was his _partner_ in nearly every sense of the word.

He let Dean pull him into gossip about their fellow dancers as Dean finished dinner—mostly grumbling about how Tessa was already eliminated _again_ and Dean was going to make her say something to the producers about her shitty partners. But some small part of Castiel’s mind still dwelled on the Switch Up.

It lurked in the corner of his mind all through dinner, suppressing his appetite and occasionally stealing his attention from their conversation. He’d had to ask Dean to repeat himself a few more times than he would’ve liked, as well as reassure Dean that he loved the food—“I promise I like it, Dean. I’m just not that hungry.”

And then when Castiel did the dishes, his mind filled with every worst possible scenario. Castiel finding out Dean had been patronizing him and he really wasn’t worth teaching. Dean deciding he liked his new partner better and giving up on Castiel. Dean deciding their partnership didn’t mean anything to him...

“Are you sure you haven’t seen this?” Dean asked as he squeezed past Castiel to get in the kitchen, shaking the DVD box in front of Castiel’s face. The familiar question pushed Castiel’s doubts back into the dark corners of his mind, and he sighed good-naturedly.

“No, for the fiftieth time—I have never seen this movie, Dean.” Castiel rolled his eyes as he  wiped his hands on a bee-patterned dishtowel. Dean took out a beer for each of them and put one bag of popcorn in the microwave to pop. As soon as it was ready, they both moved down the hall to the living room, Dean already munching on the popcorn. 

“I can’t believe you could just eat a whole bird and still want _more_ ,” Castiel said, his nose scrunching up in disgust.

“It’s different,” Dean argued, “and besides, you can’t watch a movie without popcorn.”

Dean fell onto the couch with a sigh, taking up as much space as possible.

Dean had called Castiel’s living room perfect for movie watching, and he wasn’t wrong. The floor to ceiling windows that offered him a fantastic view of the Hollywood Hills had blackout shades installed at some point, probably for this very purpose. The couch was also probably the most comfortable Castiel’d ever sat on, though Dean’s favorite features were the built in cup-holders and the fact that both ends reclined.

And the TV—well, Dean was still composing various love ballads and odes to the size and clarity of picture of the TV, so Castiel guessed it must be pretty good.

“But I did do some reading on this movie,” Castiel said, picking up their conversation again, “and I _have_ seen the original, _Der Himmel Über Berlin_. But I’m pretty sure they’re not all that similar.” When he lived on-base, Rachel had shown him the German original—she’d loved these kind of artsy movies that were supposed to make you think. Castiel thought the movies she usually showed him were boring, but this one’d stuck with Castiel even all these years later. It wasn’t that he _loved_ the movie, and sometimes he wondered if he’d even enjoyed watching it, but he couldn’t deny the connection he felt with it.

“Yeah? What happens in your movie?” Dean asked around a mouthful of popcorn. Castiel took the bag—as Dean protested that he was still eating that—and dumped about half of it into the bowl he’d grabbed from the kitchen, before handing the bag back to Dean.

“Broadly speaking,” Castiel started, “It follows angels who live on Earth and watch people to catalogue _reality_. It ends with one angel giving up his angelic existence to be human—to taste, to bleed, to see the world as humans see it.”

Damiel’s choice struck such a chord with Castiel. Castiel knew feeling distant, alone, going through existence as an observer rather than a participant—he’d lived that way for most of his life. The relationships he’d had with his fellow sailors had been intense and intimate, just as they had to be if you’re willing to put your life on the line for someone else. But while he’d come to think of them as brother and sisters, there had still always been a necessary distance between him and them. 

Castiel knew he’d always been just a little _different_ —too much of military programmed into him from a young age to be socially _normal_ , and too much heart to be of any _real_ use to the military. He may regret resigning his commission in haste, but in his darkest, most honest moments, he he thought he’d never truly belonged with his brothers- and sisters-at-arms.

“Not so different then,” Dean said, fast-forwarding through the pre-menu previews, “though there’s the romance that’s pretty important in the Nic Cage version.”

Castiel shrugged. “The end of the film suggests that the angel Damiel and a young woman have a future together. So, while Damiel may not _say_ he became human for love, I’ve always suspected that that was still an important reason.”

To some extent, he’d lived Damiel’s choices, choosing personal freedom over stability and a familiar existence. He’d decided to come out because he’d been _lonely_ , and he’d longed to experience everything human life had to offer. He’d never dated, never been in love, never even allowed himself the flurry of butterflies in his stomach of a harmless crush.

And now, sitting next to a man that sparked with _life_ and _passion_ , he wondered what else he’d been missing. What wonders of attraction and affection and companionship had he denied himself?

“Until recently, I’d never understood why an angel would want to give it all up, give up power, give up _immortality_ , in exchange for humanity—or really, for one person,” Castiel said, before looking up at Dean, “But I think I might finally get it.”

Their eyes locked, and time stopped. 

In his years as a civilian, Castiel’d always thought that if he could go back in time, he would do things differently: he would choose to keep his sexuality a secret, continue his meteoric rise through the ranks, continue to fly planes until his eyes failed him. Even if that meant losing the sense of self he gained, or the feeling that he could make his own decisions about his life, he’d at least have back the order he so craved.

For so long, he’d wanted to change that decision so badly, but not anymore. Meeting Dean, sharing himself with Dean, learning to _feel_ from Dean, he knew it had all been worth it.

Castiel blinked and the moment was over. He cleared his throat. “I never knew how he could leave left his home and his family, give up everything he ever knew—”

“But he made a new family,” Dean interjected, and Castiel wondered if he imagined the small blush that tinged Dean’s cheeks, “with that woman, right?”

Castiel nodded, smiling fondly. The moment was over, but in that time, Dean’d been completely guileless. Dean’s eyes betrayed a _care_ for Castiel that shooed away the last worries he still harbored about the Switch Up. “I guess you’re right Dean.”

“No shit I’m right,” Dean said, smirking, and started the movie.


	6. Chapter 6

When Dean and Castiel got back into the rehearsal studio the next morning, Dean knew that something had shifted between them. Castiel’s usual neutral stoicism was replaced by gentle smiles and the air between them was charged with potential. Every time their hands met, it was like a static shock to Dean’s fingertips, and Castiel’s hand on his back sent a shiver down his spine. He was acutely aware of Castiel’s (likely accidental) forays into his personal space, and while a certain amount of distance was expected in a Viennese waltz, they were still much too close for Dean’s sanity.

Fortunately about halfway through the morning, Ruby barreled into the studio like a frieght train to pause their practice for interviews. He hoped she was going to take them into the little booth as was her usual way—she said she liked to get real answers, which meant answers without the other’s interference. This would give Dean a chance to focus, to forget what Castiel’s touch felt like, to get himself back in a professional mode. 

But he’d never been that lucky.

“The theme this week is ‘A Night at the Movies’,” Ruby said, “So tell us your favorite movie dance moments of all time.”

“Singin’ in the Rain—the whole movie—is classic,” Dean said and he could see Ruby roll her eyes off-camera, “But really anything with Gene Kelly is movie magic. Or Fred Astaire. Or both of them. And the [Lindy in Hellzapoppin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahoJReiCaPk) is just incredible; one of the best—”

“That’s great, Dean!” she said with false cheerfulness, cutting him off. Dean scowled, but she ignored him, turning to Castiel. “Castiel? What about you?”

Ruby looked at Castiel pointedly, but he just stared back at her, belligerently silent. Dean elbowed Castiel, and Castiel sighed.

“Um,” he started, a little unsure, “I liked when Maria and Georg dance [the ländler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUfWRBGQkz0) in _The Sound of Music_. Does that count?”

Dean nodded his head; it was a good dance, if a little understated. Ruby gestured for Castiel to continue talking, and Castiel reluctantly obliged her. “It’s just so intimate; there’s no one else in the world but them. It’s nice to think dance can do that.”

Dean’s heart caught in his throat, and he could feel his face turning red. Ruby, on the other hand, looked like she’d hooked a fish on her line and was preparing to reel him in. “Do what exactly?” she asked, faking innocence.

“I guess make you feel that connection with another person—” Castiel looked at Dean with a soft smile, before turning back to Ruby, “make you realize feelings you didn’t know you had, make you forget about everything else, everything in the world that says you shouldn’t be together.”

Dean’s heart hammered in his chest, and he had no idea what his face was doing. He hoped his expression was appropriately interested, and didn’t completely give himself away. 

Because the truth was that the more time he spent with Castiel, the more he _liked_ him. As Dean had tried to figure out why Uriel’d warned Sam about him, he’d started to insert himself into Castiel’s non-dancing life. Movie nights in Castiel’s condo and conversations over beers on Dean’s back patio had taught him so much about Castiel, and so much more than he had ever expected.

For example, he’d quickly learned that Castiel wasn’t as humorless as he’d originally thought. When Castiel told a joke or said something funny, he usually did it in the same, manner-of-fact tone as everything else he said. Now that Dean knew what to look for, Castiel’s brand of humor, as dry and off-kilter as it was, was endearing to Dean. And when Castiel made a joke that Dean laughed at, or got one of Dean’s references, he would smile this goofy lopsided thing that would make Dean’s heart involuntarily beat faster.

Dean had promised himself when he started the show that he would never resort to showmances for votes, and also never get romantically attached to his celebrity partner. He’d seen plenty of other dancers on the show have ‘a thing’ with their partner—the closeness and intimacy and proximity week after week caused some kind of fling at least once a season. But he’d watched every relationship go down in flames because, outside the ballroom, outside the close contact and heightened emotions of the show, the spark was gone.

But here he was, dangerously close to falling for Castiel. Other than his own rule about office romances, a rule he desperately wanted to break, the only thing stopping his trajectory was a wild allegation from a semi-traitorous mercenary halfway around the world. 

And the worst part was that Dean _wanted_ to trust Castiel, to forget that Sam had ever mentioned anything, but there was part of him that couldn’t let go. Dean’d learned from experience that love and trust didn’t always follow one from the other, no matter how much he’d wanted it to. Until he knew if this was all an act on Castiel’s part—until he knew Castiel wasn’t _using_ him like Uriel’d claimed he’d done before—he had to stop himself before it was too late.

So, he’d decided he _had_ to keep some things from Castiel. It would only complicate things if Castiel knew Dean was bisexual, especially as he could feel his attraction to Castiel growing.

“So Dean,” Ruby turned her attention back to Dean, “What’s the concept for this week?”

“We’re taking our cues from _City of Angels_ on this one,” Dean explained, “and we’re more or less telling the story from the movie. Castiel is the Nicholas Cage angel and I’m the human he— he falls in love with.” Dean hoped his stutter wasn’t too obvious. Ruby seemed to catch it, if the look in her eyes was anything to go by, but she didn’t press it.  

Dean swallowed and continued his explanation. They’d probably cut most of this, but it gave him a chance to regroup as he laid out the facts of the dance. “That’s why Castiel starts over there, like he’s looking down on humanity or whatever—” Dean pointed to the top of the steps, “and I start over here.” Dean got into his starting position, and then mimicked dancing a waltz with an imaginary partner. 

“Then we dance,” he said as he finished his short solo waltz, “and we end apart.” Dean finished his demonstration by pretending to break away from his invisible partner, turning away from them to go his own way. “So, I don’t die in the end like in the movie, but the human and the angel still can’t be together.”

Castiel frowned at the end of Dean’s explanation, but didn’t offer any additional commentary. Ruby seemed to think that explanation of the dance was enough and then asked them to run through it a few times so they could edit it down later. 

As they stepped through their dance, Castiel’s frown deepened and his eyes were a million miles away.

“Hey Cas, this is a love song, so you’ve gotta pretend to like me if we’re going to sell the romance,” Dean said, giving him a wink to cover up his own nervousness.

“I _do_ like you,” Castiel said seriously, finally meeting Dean’s eyes for the first time since the end of their interviews. Dean blushed, looking away and hoping Castiel didn’t see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, giving himself time to reschool his features into something more neutral. “Then what’s with the face?” Dean gestured to Castiel’s frown.

“I understand now why you made me watch that movie,” Castiel replied, “But why not have the human and the angel be together, like in _Der Himmel Über Berlin_?”

“Why does it matter?” Dean asked, cringing as the words came out more flippantly than he planned.

“I just,” Castiel said with a huff of frustration, “I don’t like that ending.”

“But that’s how the movie ends,” Dean explained. He never imagined he’d have to fight Castiel on this, and he still wasn’t really sure why Castiel _cared_.

“We don’t _have_ to follow the plot exactly,” Castiel pointed out, “You’ve already changed it even if it’s only a little; you don’t die at the end.”

Dean conceded his point. He sighed, “So what do _you_ want to do?”

“I want to write a new ending, or really, dance a new ending,” Castiel said, “I want to dance the _Der Himmel Über Berlin_ ending.”

Dean paused, considering how to change the end of the dance. After watching _City of Angels_ , Castiel’d had him watch _Der Himmel Über Berlin_ , at least, the parts that Castiel felt most illustrated the contrasts between the two films. He could probably manage the ending Castiel wanted, but he’d have to cut out a little at the beginning. 

“Okay,” Dean started, “I think if we use the camera the right way this could work. Just no more complaining, okay?”

Castiel nodded, his smile radiant, and Dean began choreographing the new ending.

—

Castiel really needed to have a talk with Dean about the costume situation. He stood on the stage in his starting position, waiting for the damn interview playing above him to end, in a tan trenchcoat and fake black feathery wings. The harness was unbearably uncomfortable, but fortunately, he got to take it off before he did any actual dancing. 

He readjusted the shoulder straps one more time as the package wrapped up overhead, trying to put out of his mind the technical difficulties that had plagued their dress rehearsal. His name and Dean’s were announced, as well as their dance and song, and then the music began. 

He walked down the steps to where Dean was sitting at a small café-style table. Dean looked wistful and Castiel approached, seemingly invisible to Dean until he shed his wings and his trenchcoat in one smooth movement. He stood in front of Dean in just an ill-fitting suit and tie, and Dean looked up at him, shock on his face. Castiel put out his hand to invite Dean to dance, and they moved together through the opening natural turns that define the look of the dance. They moved into more challenging steps, the kind with names like ‘Contra Check’ and ‘Fleckerl,’ that Dean said would help them finally get into Crowley’s good graces. 

Castiel couldn’t remember a time when dancing felt so easy. The presence of the judges and audience still weighed on him, their flickers of movement in the corners of his eyes kept him from completely falling into the dance. But then he focused on _Dean_ , and the romance of the song, and the movements that had seemed so alien to him only a week ago felt entirely natural. 

They parted ways as the singer began to repeat the final lines— _I just want you to know who I am_. The camera was positioned so that it looked like they were going their separate ways, but then it panned over to the small set still in the corner of the dancefloor, Castiel and Dean seated at the table and heads bowed intimately together. The song ended and a beat passed before the building burst into applause.

They walked over to the judges booth, smiles wide on their faces, and Castiel didn’t think he’d ever seen Dean so giddy. 

Dick smirked at them. “Well done, gentlemen. Let’s see what the judges have to say.”

Cassie started: “That was beautifully danced, but it was really the connection between the two of you that shined, tonight.” The audience erupted into applause again, obviously agreeing with Cassie’s comments

Crowley gave them a simple “It was a nice traditional Viennese Waltz and I didn’t hate it,” before waving Dick on boredly to the next judge.

Next in line was Pam, who looked like she was close to tears. She kept her comments short and to-the-point too, saying, “It was romantic and sweet, and I loved it.”

Finally, it was Balthazar’s turn. He stood up to applaud them himself and pointed at Castiel. “You had some struggles at the beginning, Castiel, but you are really starting to emerge as a contender.” 

Castiel blushed as the audience joined in to cheer him on. Dean patted him on the shoulder before pulling him into a one-arm hug. Dick dismissed them to the skybox, reminding the viewers the available modes of voting and Dean and Castiel crossed the dancefloor and walked up the stairs.

Jody Mills beckoned them over once they reached the top. “You did such a great job tonight,” she said, hugging both of them, “Castiel, you really seemed to get in the role in a way we haven’t seen before. What’s different about this week?”

“Our movie this week was _City of Angels_ , but I really love the German film it was based on,” Castiel explained, “I want to believe that despite overwhelming odds, two people can still fall in love and be together. There’s just something so inspiring about an angel who learns to love—despite his family and despite his programming. I think he should be rewarded for that, not punished.”

Jody touched her hand to her heart. “Aww, that’s so romantic. Let’s get your scores.”

They were awarded three 8s—one grudgingly from Crowley—and a 9 from Pam. Dean scooped Castiel up in a bear hug, and held Castiel so close, Castiel thought he might melt in Dean’s arms. Moments like these were what he’d been missing in his life, and he clung to Dean, desperate to not let it end. Dean whispered, “good job, buddy,” into Castiel’s ear and Castiel shivered. He smiled at Dean, and felt like everything in the world had just clicked into place. Still wrapped in Dean’s embrace, he felt a sense of _rightness_ that he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. He wanted to hold onto Dean and never let go, but Jody started talking about voting methods and making sure the viewers knew that their favorite couples need their votes, and Dean released him. 

They walked over to the edge of the skybox to watch the remainder of the show, but all Castiel could think about was Dean’s proximity, and their dance. For the first time all season, Dean and Castiel were on the top of the leaderboard, and had a good chance of staying there. Krissy and Aaron, who seemed already to be a lock for the finals, had already danced, earning four 8s. So had Kevin and Jo, who took the top spot the week before, and they’d only gotten thirty points. The only couple left to dance was Kali and Gabriel, who had already been announced as _in jeopardy_ ; despite causing a stir week after week in the tabloids with their dramatic rehearsals and paparazzi pictures of them around town (which he learned from Hannah, who apparently kept tabs on all of that), and they had yet to earn their first 7. And while Hannah assured Castiel that self-destruction and drama between partners does usually translate into votes, she thought that their low scores and Kali’s cavalier attitude toward improvement spelled early elimination for the couple.

Sure enough, shortly after they danced, Kali and Gabriel (along with Harry and Bela and, to Castiel’s great surprise Benny and Lisa) were called up on stage for the elimination. After long agonizing pauses—which Dick Roman seemed to enjoy just a little _too_ much—Benny and Lisa and Harry and Bela were called safe. Gabriel seemed somewhat disinterested in their elimination, and patted the other couples on the back congenially, but Kali fumed silently. Castiel was sure he’d hear another sordid tale from Hannah in the next few days about the two of them, if Kali’s screwed up mouth and tense shoulders were anything to go by. 

Dick called them down to do their exit interview, and Kali said nothing. Dean called what Gabriel did when he opened his mouth “jabberin’ on about nothing,” and Gabriel did that admirably when Dick asked him about this year’s experience.

“But we’re not done yet!” Dick shouted over the applause as Kali and Gabriel took their final bows, “We still have to announce the new partnerships _you_ picked for—” he took another dramatic pause here, “the Switch Up!”

Castiel’s heart jumped up into his throat and he was only marginally aware of Dean patting him on the shoulder before walking over to line up with the other professional dancers. He started to reach out to pull Dean back, but it was too late and Dean was already gone.

Dick Roman rattled off new celebrity and professional pairs, and the pro walked over to join their new partner on the other side of the stage. When Dick announced Dean’s new partner, Krissy Chambers, Castiel watched her go to Dean with something like jealousy. Krissy was shaping up to be quite the dancer in her own right, and Dean’s choreography would definitely show her off.

And then everyone would know that Dean should’ve had a different partner, and Castiel shouldn’t have gotten this far in the competition at all. 

Dick called out name after name, and Castiel’s fears grew and grew every time Dick didn’t call his name. Finally, there were two celebrities and two dancers left. He looked at Donna, the other remaining celebrity without a new partner, and smiled, if only to take his attention away from the fact that Michael was one of the two dancers left. 

Dean might’ve talked with Michael two seasons ago, but from the predatory look he was giving Castiel, Castiel doubted any of their conversation had stuck. He just knew if Michael was his new partner, everything would be over—his chances at winning, his goodwill with the audience, and his relationship with Dean. Anxiety burrowed deep in his gut as horrible futures spun out in his head.

But he didn’t have long to imagine how bad it could be—it was his turn to get a new partner.

“Castiel!” Dick shouted excitedly, drawing out the tension as the audience fell silent, “This week you will be dancing with—” 


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel fumbled with not spilling his coffee while still holding his phone to his ear as he got out of his car. He was at the practice studios earlier than usual, but his new partner had insisted on getting a feel for him before the camera crew and line producer showed up.

“You’re over exaggerating, I think.” Hannah’s voice sounded distant and Castiel’s phone slipped down his face. “Michael couldn’t’ve been that bad.”

Castiel righted his phone and put his travel mug on the roof of his car before pulling out his duffel bag with a grunt. “You didn’t see him last night,” Castiel explained, “He really looked like he wanted to destroy me.”

“It makes sense from a strategy perspective,” Hannah mused, “But I can’t see it being encouraged by the show’s producers.”

“Well,” Castiel said, “at least he’s not our problem.” Castiel breathed out a sigh of relief as he thought of his new partner. It was Aaron; America had chosen Aaron for him. 

Dean had been thrilled. Old friends as they were, Dean gushed about how great Aaron was going to be for Castiel before they had to part ways. Castiel tried not to watch Dean as he walked over to Krissy, already so easily building a rapport with her. But Dean had always been magnetic, and Castiel powerless to resist his pull. 

Aaron was nice, too, Castiel supposed. They’d only talked briefly to discuss meeting up this morning, but Aaron was open and friendly and _not Michael_ , so Castiel didn’t dread working with him.

He still dreaded being away from Dean, even if he might not have any misgivings about Aaron. Castiel didn’t know if he’d be able to dance with anyone else the way he danced with Dean, and perhaps more troubling was that he didn’t know if he _wanted_ to dance with anyone else. 

“I have to go now,” Castiel said to Hannah, cutting off the plans he was only half-listening to, and hung up after a simple “goodbye.” He walked into Aaron’s practice space, and felt disoriented. It was the same size as Dean’s—though Castiel was used the wall of mirrors being on his left when he entered. Aaron clapped Castiel on the back in greeting as soon as Castiel was through the door. It made Castiel jump, but they both laughed off Castiel’s skittishness.

Castiel had met Aaron plenty of times throughout the competition, but this was the first time he ever really _looked_ at the man. He was about Castiel’s height, if not a little shorter (though it was hard to tell since Aaron’s fashionable sneakers added an inch or two). He was less broad than either Castiel or Dean, but his lithe frame belied a hidden strength. 

“Your interview on Monday was something else,” Aaron said as he put his bag down in the corner. Castiel gave him a quizzical look, not quite sure what he was referring to. “All that talk about _connection_ and _feelings_ … and then that _dance_. The way Dean was lookin’ at you, I thought he was going to have his way with you on the dancefloor.”

Castiel squinted. “Dean doesn’t— He’s not interested in—”

“Oh,” Aaron said, eyes wide as saucers, “I mean, he’s _not_ , um, _you know_...” Aaron trailed off searching for the right word as his hands made anxious circles, “exclusive? He doesn’t really have a preference.”

Castiel paused, unsure how to proceed. If Dean was like him, why didn’t he ever say anything?

“I didn’t know,” Castiel said distantly. 

“I’m sorry, man,” Aaron said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder, “I thought you knew— _everyone_ knows—” Castiel felt his heart plummet into his gut, “But please don’t tell him I told you. I shouldn’t’ve assumed, and it wasn’t right for me to out him.”

“I won’t say anything,” Castiel said, shaking his head solemnly.

Castiel hesitated, a million questions on his tongue. He didn’t want to probe for details, and he didn’t want to gossip about Dean when he wasn’t around to defend himself. Castiel tried to will himself to be _cool_ about it, but all of him was screaming for more information, since what Aaron revealed seemed to be so incongruous with Dean’s previous behavior.

Castiel fidgeted. “I _have_ seen him flirt with … well, with a lot of people, come to think of it.”

“That’s just because Dean likes to flirt,” Aaron said, laughing. “I think it’s because he has a fear of intimacy, but don’t try to tell him that.” Aaron winked at Castiel, any discomfort gone. As Aaron visibly relaxed as talked, Castiel became more and more tense. Aaron gave Castiel this information so freely—information that Dean had thus far denied him. 

“Cassie Robinson—you know the judge—was his first real girlfriend. But that was a looooong time ago.” Aaron smirked at some thought he didn’t share with Castiel, shook his head ruefully and started Castiel on some warm ups designed to limber Castiel up.

Their dance was the Argentine tango to a slow, acoustic version of _[(Everything I Do) I Do It For You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGoWtY_h4xo)_ by Bryan Adams, and Aaron thought the best angle would be to play up the romance again—after all, the Argentine tango was a sexy dance about connection and their song was … Their song was dangerously close to describing how he was coming to feel about Dean. Dean wanted to win this show, and Castiel was prepared to do anything for him to achieve that goal. At least, he had been before he knew that Dean was deliberately walling off parts of himself from Castiel. 

“So how did you and Dean become friends?” Castiel asked as they stretched. 

Aaron shrugged. “The ballroom dancing crowd’s not a big one. You go to enough competitions and you know everyone there is to know in the sport.” Castiel nodded, sitting on the floor and stretching out his hamstrings. Castiel wasn’t all that surprised. Dean had said that he’d been a champion a couple times; he had probably been well known in his field long before joining the cast of _Ballroom Superstars_.

“But I also knew his teacher, Ellen,” Aaron continued, “She was a friend of a friend of my coach, and I even knew her before I knew Dean, since Dean didn’t start ballroom dance until he was a little older.”

Castiel hummed his agreement. He did at least know _that_ about Dean. “Dean told me that he didn’t dance until he moved to Sioux Falls to live with her and her husband.”

“Well,” Aaron hedged and Castiel’s heart fell. “He did dance before then, just not ballroom. But if Dean hasn’t told you, I’m not going to say anything. I’m not going to spill _all_ his secrets.” Aaron put out a hand to help Castiel up, and Castiel took it stoically. He stood, brushed off some imaginary lint, and tried to reign in his emotions while Aaron greeted the camera crew that was walking in the door. Castiel turned his back to all of them, balling up his fists and trying to keep his face from betraying his hurt and his anger. 

He hadn’t expected Dean to tell him _everything_ about himself, but he’d thought he’d at least known everything that was common knowledge. He’d also believed he might’ve had a glimpse at the Dean that everyone _didn’t_ know—the Dean who cooked him waffles and complained about movies leaving out parts from the books they were based on. The Dean of shy smiles and self-deprecating humor. The Dean who looked into his eyes and _saw_ Castiel, the _real_ Castiel.

He had been suffering under the assumption that he understood who Dean was, but now he didn’t know what to think—of Dean, of their whole relationship. How could he draw any conclusion about Dean, and be accurate, if he hadn’t been given all of the pertinent information?

Aaron tapped Castiel on the shoulder and Castiel turned to face him. Castiel hoped that his face looked neutral, and if Aaron caught a whiff of Castiel’s distress, he didn’t comment on it. “Okay, it looks like the camera crew is here,” Aaron said instead and pointed to a very tall, very broad man who stooped to get through the door, “so let’s start working on that Argentine tango!”

—

Dean drove home pleasantly exhausted after his first day of rehearsal with Krissy. They got on like a house on fire, even though she made Dean the butt of her jokes more that he would have liked.

Krissy was also a quick study, and she didn’t usually have to be told a direction more than once. It often made dancing with her almost effortless, though she usually wanted to find her own way to get where Dean wanted her to go. 

He hated comparing her style of learning to Castiel’s but it was almost impossible—they both shared a stubbornness and skepticism of Dean’s methods, but Krissy had a competitive streak that made her easy to coach. When Krissy questioned Dean’s instructions, it was because she wanted to find the best way for her to do the steps; Castiel’s questions usually revealed that he still didn’t understand why ‘humans engage in these sorts of activities’—his _exact_ words. Krissy easily slipped into whatever character she was meant to play in the dance, and still brought her own sense of style and personality to every dance, while Castiel struggled with even just showing the audience that he was a living, breathing _person_ when he danced. 

Basically, Krissy danced because she loved it and wanted to show off, and Castiel danced because he had been told to. And that difference in purpose showed. 

Even though on paper Krissy seemed like she would be a better partner to dance with, Dean still couldn’t wait to get back in the studio with Castiel. Krissy was _fun_ , and Dean knew with enough time, their relationship would blossom into true respect and friendship. But with her, he didn’t feel that _spark_ (and God, did he feel like he needed to drink ten beers and build another piece of furniture for that thought). 

With Castiel … well, he was starting to get worried about the way his heart sped up when he caught a glimpse of Castiel. Or how excited he felt when Castiel figured out a problem that had been bothering him. Or how much he wanted to hold Castiel in his arms when Castiel’d confided in Dean. Or how kissable Castiel’s lips were starting to look.

Dean blushed and was glad no one was around to see. Thinking about Castiel’s lips was a train of thought he couldn’t afford to follow right now.

He turned onto his street and smiled when he spotted a garish yellow Gremlin in his driveway and a young woman with bright red hair on his porch swing. He pulled in next to the hunk of junk he would never be caught dead calling a car, and walked toward his porch.

“Charlie,” he said affectionately, “what are you doing here?”

“I was in town,” she replied with a shrug. The last time Dean’d seen her, her hair fell straight down to her waist. It had annoyed Dean at the time, since his hand kept getting tangled in it when they danced. But now, it was chin length and curled, and Dean wished she’d gotten it cut about six months ago. He smirked ironically to himself—maybe then they’d’ve taken home the Mirrorball.

Dean leaned down to give her a hug, tucking her head underneath his chin. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment; a partnership started by _Ballroom Superstars_ ’ producers had turned into one of the closest and most meaningful friendships of his life, and any time he got to see his busy and constantly traveling friend made him feel like part of his life was clicking back into place. He’d told her several times that she was the sister he’d never wanted (and he’d gotten a few punches from Jo for that comment), but the truth was now that she was around, Dean never wanted to get rid of her.

He let her go after holding her for probably too long, but the street was empty and neither Sam nor Jo was around to give him shit. He invited her in and she yanked off her rainbow-colored converse high tops in the entryway. She extracted her laptop and dropped her messenger bag in front of the door. Dean frowned as she left a wake of brightly colored fabric and plastic, which he bent over to pick up and put in the bin by the door. 

Dean looked over at her and shook her head; while he was putting things away, she’d taken over one end of his dining room table like she was at home. He walked past her to the kitchen, where he poured both of them a glass of sweet tea. He brought it back to her at the table, and she took it without even looking up from her computer. Dean took the seat across from her, and after a couple more clicks, she turned the laptop so Dean could see the screen.

“Everyone’s really talking about that dance with Castiel last night,” she said, leaning forward as she showed Dean one of the social media sites he didn’t use—not that he really used any of them. “Social media is blowing up about you two. You two trended on Twitter last night, have three fansites now and at least one tumblr blog called ‘Fuck Yeah Dean and Castiel’.”

Dean frowned over his glass of tea. “I’m not really sure what that means …”

“Well,” Charlie explained, “people are into your story now—the story of the two of you. They don’t know if you’re friends or more, but there are several pieces on less than reputable news sites fueling the fire with speculation that you two are knockin’ boots.” Charlie waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Dean blushed and spluttered on his tea. “I—I’m not— _We’re_ not—” Dean took a breath before stating calmly, “Cas and I—we’re _just_ friends.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Uh huh sure. I believe you.”

“You know me—no show romances.”

“Well, that’s easy enough when your partner is an old married lady or a super cute, but super gay tech genius mogul—” Charlie then pointed to herself, “But when it’s a very hot and unattached man who swings your way …” Charlie shrugged and looked at Dean pointedly.

“It’s not about the attraction—”

Charlie cut in. “So you _are_ attracted to him!”

It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes as he ignored her interruption. “—or marital status. It’s about the fact that I’ve watched these relationships burn hot and heavy for the duration of the show and then fizzle out when it’s all over. I’m not looking for something brief yet passionate—I’m too old for that, Charlie.” Dean sighed, resigned.

“Aww, you thinking about settling down?” Charlie gave him an appraising and almost proud look. Dean ducked his head under her scrutiny.

“It’s not necessarily _that_ ,” he said to the table as he played with the condensation on his glass, “but if I’m going to get involved with someone right now, I want it to go somewhere. Or at least have the _potential_ to go somewhere.”

“And you can’t get that with Cas?” she asked earnestly, “He doesn’t seem the love ‘em and leave ‘em type.”

Dean shrugged noncommittally. “But he _is_ leaving once the season’s done, and who knows when he’ll be back in L.A. He’s got that whole—” Dean waved his arms around, indicating something bigger than words, “book tour and legal matters and stuff in his life that I just _can’t_ be a part of.”

Dean shook his head. Dean’s heart might’ve done a flip every time he saw Castiel, but he had a hard time imagining a future for them. They were from such vastly different worlds with completely different life goals and plans—it’d never work.

“Plus,” he added, “I’m going on tour for the whole summer, so it’s really not a great time for me to start something anyway.”

“Ugh!” Charlie exclaimed, falling back in her chair, “Don’t remind me about the tour. I am _soooo_ out of shape. I didn’t realize coming in second on _Ballroom Superstars_ was like being first runner-up to Miss America.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “Miss America?”

“You know,” Charlie straightened up from her slouch, “If Miss America is unable to perform her duties, the first runner-up will take over yadda yadda yadda. And since Madison is filming another one of those godawful werewolf romance movies …”

“You get to spend the summer with the most attractive man you know,” Dean said with a wink.

Charlie pretended to barf. “And fifteen other dancers. On a bus.” Charlie made a face like she was smelling a decomposing body, and shuddered like she was trying to get rid of a particularly bad image before taking a long swallow of her sweet tea. She smacked her lips, satisfied, before giving Dean a serious look.

“I know you have a bunch of reasons _not_ to give it a go with Cas,” she started, holding up a hand to keep Dean quiet, “but I personally think you should consider it.”

Dean sighed. The problem was that he _had_ considered it. Despite telling her (and telling himself over and over again) that he _can’t_ get caught up in the intense emotions of their partnership, Dean’s mind had still conjured up images of them holding hands while on a date or lounging on Dean’s couch, legs entwined while Dean threw popcorn at a very disgruntled Castiel. And in the safety on Dean’s bed, images of Castiel next to him, all strong muscle and soft blue eyes and mussed dark hair.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, turning his head away from her. “I don’t know, Charlie. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll regale you with stories of my trip to Tokyo for this last conference instead. You’ll enjoy this: there are at least two drunken nights of karaoke that I can remember and a very hot motocross driver named Dorothy …”

—

Castiel collapsed onto the sofa in his condo when he got home, bone weary and emotionally exhausted. His phone beeped at him again and he groaned—another text message from Hannah. He’d avoided talking to her all day, but she didn’t seem to get the message.

He turned so that he was laying the length of the couch before he called her back. He threw an arm over his face as the phone rang, dreading the inevitable barrage of questions.

“Castiel,” Hannah said quickly, answering the phone with little more greeting than his name, “Thank you for finally getting back to me. It’s very important that we know how you’re going to approach this week.” Castiel could hear Hannah shuffling papers on the other end of the line. “Now, the public response from your last dance was _phenomenal_. Ephraim and Josiah, who are keeping tabs on public opinion of you and your partner, told me that metrics from several avenues of social media indicate that you two are currently the most popular couple, at least on the internet.”

“Hannah…” Castiel sighed. The last thing he wanted to talk about was his and Dean’s popularity _as a couple_. As far as _Dean_ was concerned, they weren’t a couple of anything.

“So I think going into this week, your strategy—”

“Hannah, what am I even doing here?” Castiel interjected. He didn’t care about winning and he didn’t care about strategy.

Hannah paused as if she was trying to process Castiel’s question. “I don’t understand. Your mission objectives are clear,” she said. Ah yes, it was all about the mission with Hannah.

“I mean, what am _I_ doing here? Why _me_?” Castiel dragged a hand down over his face, and his voice turned bitter. “Was I just _convenient_? There had to have been others like me. Why didn’t you pick one of them?

Air swooshed by the receiver on the other end of the line; Hannah must’ve shaken her head. “People _like_ you Castiel. They hear your story and can’t help but flock to you. _You_ are special and—”

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he cut her off. He didn’t want to hear any more.

“Is the problem the Switch Up?” she asked, concern in her voice, though Castiel didn’t know if she was more worried about the _mission_ or his well-being. “It’s just a week and then you’ll be back with Dean.”

“No, that’s not the problem,” he said firmly.

Hannah paused before asking hesitantly, “...So the problem is with Dean?”

Castiel didn’t respond—didn’t know if he _could_ respond. 

“You two danced so _well_ yesterday,” she said emphatically, “I don’t understand what the issue is. And from our conversations, you seem to really be getting along with him.”

Castiel laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, well ‘ _seem’_ is the operative word. I thought he— And I cared—” Castiel stopped talking. He felt the first prickle of tears between his eyes. He tried to compose himself, look for the right words to explain the everything he’d learned today and everything he’d felt for longer than that, but his voice caught in his throat.

“Castiel,” Hannah began seriously, “are you telling me that you want to withdraw?”

“I know it’s not … _ideal_ for our case,” he replied, “but I’m sure you could talk with the producers and— and just make it look like I didn’t get enough votes.”

“No. I’m not going to do that,” she said firmly, “We _need_ this Castiel. We all need you to make it as far into the competition as you can.”

“But …” he began but trailed off. How could he explain the hurt he felt to Hannah? To have someone try to pry information out of you while intentionally keeping God knows how much a secret. Before today, Castiel had thought that he and Dean were _friends_. 

They hadn’t promised to divulge every little secret to each other, but the truth was that Dean knew all the essentials about Castiel. Between rehearsals and the evenings spent at Castiel’s condo, Dean knew everything. Dean knew about his childhood with a distant mother and absent father, his lonely years at boarding school and in the Naval Academy, his years in Japan when he finally felt like he _belonged_ somewhere, the time he spent nearly homeless when he got back stateside— _everything_ important.

And Castiel didn’t even have a good sketch of Dean’s life before the show.

His heart ached with betrayal and his stomach roiled with embarrassment. He was so stupid to think for even a second that Dean really cared about him. This was just a _show_ after all, and everyone played their parts—everyone except Castiel. It wasn’t Dean’s fault that Castiel had been the naïve rube who ended up falling for his partner for real. 

Castiel jolted up like he’d been hit by lightning. Where did that come from? He knew he had to get out now, or he’d be completely fucked.

“Castiel? Are you still there?” Hannah’s voice cut through his reverie.

“I’m here, Hannah,” he said, heart hammering in his chest. He wasn’t sure how loud he was speaking, the beat of his heart thundering in his ears, but he hoped it was at an appropriate volume since he just wanted this conversation to be over. “I will do my best for the mission. Sorry for worrying you.”

“Thank you, Castiel,” Hannah said, breathing a sigh of relief, “And all future out servicemembers thank you too.”

He told Hannah goodnight, but the line was already dead. He glared at his phone before tossing it inelegantly onto his coffee table. Hannah might not want to—or be able to—pull strings on her end, but Castiel could do a lot on his. He might have the viewer votes from Monday night, but a bad dance with a different partner could easily counteract a previous strong showing, especially since the scores from Movie Night and the Switch Up were being combined for the elimination on Latin Night. 

He felt a little guilty—if Aaron was anything like Dean, he’d feel like a bad dance was his fault, even though Castiel was plotting to throw the competition. And he _had_ promised to help Dean win if possible. Though if Dean didn’t keep his half of the bargain, there was nothing compelling Castiel to keep his.

It was settled then; Castiel would perform poorly on purpose with Aaron to try to kill any chances of staying on the show. Castiel would go home and Dean would lose again—a win-win as far as Castiel was concerned. 


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel began enacting his plan the next morning in rehearsal. Castiel usually wasn’t the type to who could let mediocre or bad performance slide, but pure spite and betrayal fueled his obstructionist behavior. Castiel was nothing if not stubborn and persistent. Once he set his mind to something, there was nothing that could stand in his way. 

And he wanted this whole competition to be _over_. If he could rewind the past few years, go back  to Rexford or go back to the military, he would do it in heartbeat. Life had been simple then, no Hannah, no book tour, no lawsuit, no _Dean_. He didn’t want to be the poster boy for LGBT servicemembers or discrimination in the military anymore—he just wanted to be _Castiel_ for a while. He wasn’t even sure who that person was anymore. 

The dark desire to see Dean lose also drove Castiel to purposeful failure. The thought of Dean seeing him dance badly _on_ _purpose_ gave Castiel a sick sort of satisfaction. His hurt and humiliation from Tuesday had turned to raw anger over the course of just a few short days, and that made it easier to carry out his plan for getting eliminated. Dean obviously hadn’t cared about Castiel’s feelings, so there was no need to care about his—not anymore.

After a few days of either no progress or getting worse, Aaron surprised Castiel by showing up to Friday morning’s rehearsal with Dean in tow. Castiel saw Dean walk in, all easy smiles and laughter with Aaron, and Castiel’s heart turned to stone. Dean looked over at Castiel and shot him a lazy smile, full of affection and warmth, but Castiel just brushed it off. He wouldn’t let himself be taken in by Dean’s boyish charms. Not for even a second. 

“Heya, Cas,” Dean said, reaching out to hug Castiel. Castiel looked down at his shoe and pretended not to notice. “Heard you’ve been missing me.” Dean smiled broadly, joking, but Castiel could hear an edge of anxiety in his voice. 

“Quite the contrary,” Castiel said stiffly, looking anywhere but Dean’s face, “I assure you that you have not been missed.”

“Well, Aaron told me you were strugglin’ a little with the Argentine tango, so I wanted to help, maybe finally show you how the tango is different,” Dean explained, “I am your partner after all.” Dean chuckled a little, and the anger inside Castiel turned to fury. 

“Yes, you’re my partner,” Castiel said sardonically, his chuckle dark and without humor.

Dean gave him a puzzled look. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

Castiel’s mouth was set in a firm line. Letting his anger get the best of him, letting it out that he was furious with Dean and all the reasons why, wasn’t very conducive to getting him off the show as soon as possible. “Of course not. Everything is _fine_.” 

Dean frowned. “It doesn’t seem like everything’s fine. I thought we’d agreed to talk to each other.” Dean crossed his arms defensively and something in Castiel snapped.

“I thought so too,” Castiel hissed, “But I didn’t realize that meant I’d tell you everything about me, and I’d have to learn about you from _someone else_.” Castiel pointed sharply at Aaron to punctuate his sentence.

Dean’s eyes widened in surprise, before he whipped his head over toward Aaron. “What did you say?!”

“Look, I’m sorry. I thought he _knew_ ,” Aaron said, putting his arms up innocently, at the same time Castiel spoke, “Enough to know that you don’t _trust_ me—not with your sexuality and not with your past.”

Dean chewed on his upper lip, pulling a long breath in through his nose. His cheeks were red and eyes were hard as he stared Castiel down. “Cas, we are going outside,” he said cooly. He pulled off his lapel mic, tossed it toward a boom mic operator, and turned toward the producer, “And if you follow me, so help me God, you will be down a camera.”

Dean crossed the space to the door quickly, but Aaron stopped him as he got a hand on the door handle. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, “I thought—”

“Just, don’t, okay?” Dean said firmly, but not harshly, “Not right now.” Aaron nodded and Dean walked out. Castiel stood frozen for a moment before taking off his own mic and handing it off to one of the crew members. Aaron also tried to stop him as he made his way toward the door, but Castiel ignored him. Castiel half-hoped that Dean’d disappeared between the door to the studio and the front door. He didn’t want to talk to Dean, to hash things out; he wanted to be _gone_ , and he was sure Dean was contractually obligated to work out any problems between them. 

Once outside, Castiel turned the corner to find Dean standing in a small alley on the side of the building. Dean was smart about where he’d chosen to wait for Castiel—the alley was hidden from the street by a stucco wall that surrounded the building. They couldn’t been seen by the paparazzi who hung out on the other side of the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of a celebrity or pro.

Dean paced, obviously distressed, and the dark, sick part of Castiel reared up in satisfaction again. Dean caught sight of Castiel as he approached, and halted in his tracks.

“What’s your problem, man?” Dean asked, frustration leaking into his voice.

“Nothing, Dean,” Castiel answered, stoic, giving Dean nothing. The anger in his gut roared for him to yell and rail at Dean, but he refused to listen to it again. He would get through this conversation and continue with his plan.

Dean rubbed his temples and mumbled something Castiel couldn’t hear. “It’s obviously not nothing’,” Dean hissed, “Or you wouldn’t’ve said anything in the studio. Now, what has Aaron told you that’s got your feathers all ruffled?”

Castiel bristled at Dean’s dismissive tone. Castiel’s _feathers_ hadn’t just been _ruffled_ ; Dean had pried and poked and prodded at him for weeks, and now Castiel _knew_ that he’d been given nothing in return. Castiel’s trust had been misplaced, and Dean didn’t even understand how Castiel’d been betrayed, how _Dean_ had betrayed Castiel.

“It’s just—.” Castiel could feel his anger rising, and he tried to squash it down. He collected himself and tried again. “Everyone seems to know about you but _me_.”

“So?” Dean asked flippantly.

Castiel bit back a curse. “I’m giving you everything, Dean, and you’re—,” Castiel balled up his fists to contain himself. He considered using his fists for something other than a way to hold back his anger, but he refrained. The last thing Castiel needed (needed for Hannah, of course, and his mission) was to start a fistfight. 

“Do you not have _any_ faith in me?” Castiel asked, hurt. 

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean said through gritted teeth, “It’s not about you. Not everything is your business. We were just stuck together by people dicking with our lives. We’re not _friends_!” 

Castiel was taken aback. Dean’s declaration stung more than he thought it would. He had suspected that the appearance of friendship between them was all an act on Dean’s part, but knowing didn’t make it hurt less—if anything, Castiel hurt _more_.

“You told me that we had to work on us,” Castiel said, resigned. “That we had to be solid. That this is a _partnership_ and we—” Castiel gestured quickly between the two of them, “had to _talk_ to each other.”

“We have talked to each other!”

“No, Dean. _I’ve_ talked to _you_ ,” Castiel said, moving close to Dean and poking at Dean in the chest to emphasize his point, “But I don’t _know_ you—not like I thought I did. You edited out big chunks of your life, _lying_ to me by omission. I—”

“And what about you, Cas?” Dean countered with a cruel smile, taking a step back, “What about your problems with authority in the Navy? You haven’t been exactly forthcoming about that!”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Who have you been talking to?”

Dean scoffed, “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does,” Castiel said, enunciating every world. He stepped back into Dean’s space, forcing Dean to step back until he hit the wall. 

Castiel spoke lowly, but clearly, his eyes boring into Dean’s. “There are people from my past who would be happy to drag my good name through the mud because I didn’t always _fall in line_. People were _furious_ when I came out, Dean. I’d already been on a few bad sides because I _refused_ to hurt innocent people, even when I was commanded to do so. And then, coming out was just an excuse for them to hate me even more.”

Castiel could feel Dean’s labored breathing, every gulp of air he pulled in made his chest brush against Castiel’s. They were scant few inches between their faces, but Castiel moved even closer, straightening to his full height to look down on a slouching Dean.

“Do you know why I’m _suing_ the military, Dean?” Castiel asked with a cynical grin and tilt to his head, “Did you know that sexuality and gender orientation are even now not a protected class in the military as far as equal employment laws are concerned? Oh, I couldn’t be discharged for ‘being gay’ with the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, but Captain Adler sticking me behind a desk just for coming out _was completely legal_. The almost daily harassment I received from my new ‘officemates’ _was completely legal_. Every professional dream I’d ever had was taken from me, and it was all—” Castiel paused for effect, letting all of his years of frustration and pain settle into his words, “ _completely legal_.”

Castiel stepped back, essentially freeing Dean from where he was pinned up against the wall, and Dean’s knees buckled slightly when he took a step forward.

Castiel crossed his arms. “So sorry I didn’t mention that every time I’ve tried to make the right choice, I’ve been ruthlessly punished.”

Dean looked down at the gravel under their feet and stuffed his hands in his pocket. Castiel could see that Dean’s cheeks were pink, but Castiel did know if it was from embarrassment or anger or something else. 

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said after a long pause, still not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “I’m sorry for not telling you that … that I’m into dudes too, okay? I still have a hard time telling people—even people I _know_ won’t judge me.” Dean coughed and looked over his shoulder, looking to see if someone had wandered by and overheard.

Dean finally looked up at Castiel. “But, just because you’re … whatever you are that got you in trouble with the top brass, doesn’t mean you’re _entitled_ to know that information about me. Still,” he paused and rubbed back of neck, “maybe I should have said something, to strengthen our bond or to make you feel more comfortable or whatever.”

Castiel nodded, his anger calming slightly. “I don’t want to pry into your life—you have a right to your privacy. But these things—what Aaron said about you—he acted like they were something everyone knew. And it felt like you were intentionally keeping things from me.”

“Everyone _does_ know,” Dean said, chagrined, “but not because _I_ told them. I’ve told Aaron a lot about my childhood and teenage years, but some things he already knew because dancers love gossip. My life and my past has been traded around like currency in the dancesport world for as long as I can remember. And you gotta understand, Cas, that I just _can’t_ talk about some things in my past. It’s too much.” Dean’s expression turned pained, and Castiel’s anger fled completely. Some terrible wound had been inflicted on Dean, and Castiel was poking it with a stick. His betrayal was replaced by guilt, and he felt awful for letting his hurt feelings loose on Dean.

Castiel placed a comforting hand on Dean’s arm. “Maybe you _should_ talk about it then. Help you process what happened.” Castiel had spoken to a number of counselors both on base and when he got back to the U.S. Talking to someone about the actions he’d taken in a war had helped him tremendously.

Dean wrenched his arm away and his expression turned cold. “ _No_ ,” he said firmly, shocking Castiel.

Castiel tried to backpedal. “I don’t mean you have to tell me. But maybe a profess—”

“No,” Dean repeated, “I’m not going to do that.” He started walking away from Castiel, and Castiel grabbed his arm, swinging him back around to face Castiel.

“ _Fine_. You can do whatever you want. We’re not _friends_ after all,” Castiel said, and thought he saw a glimmer of hurt pass through Dean’s eyes. 

“Fine,” Dean agreed, whatever look Castiel saw in his eyes replaced by a stony glare, “I’ll see you at the dress rehearsal.”

Dean walked back into the building, and Castiel gave him a small headstart. He’d hate to bump into Dean again anytime soon. There was still a whole day of rehearsal left, but Castiel dreaded going back in to find Aaron. At least for the rest of the day he wouldn’t have to fake dancing poorly—he knew he’d be so distracted nothing would stick.

He consoled himself that at least he wouldn’t be around much longer. He’d have to come back for the finale (his contract explicitly stated that), but he wasn’t going to spend any more time with Dean than he had to.

Only one more week, and he’d leave Dean behind, and he would be the better for it.

—

Dean had a million text apologies from Aaron on his phone, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond to them just yet. Emotions warred inside him—fury, sadness, guilt, embarrassment, indignation, and more—vying for control of Dean’s mental state. Dean opted to settle on just plain exhaustion as he fell into his couch cushions. 

It’d taken twice as much effort as usual for him to stay on task with Krissy the rest of their rehearsal together. And to make matters worse, she could tell he was upset, and didn’t keep it a secret that she noticed. He could tell that she cared, but her trying to annoy or wheedle information out of him didn’t make him feel any better.

His mind raced in circles, unable to stop thinking about what Castiel’d said. How dare he get mad at Dean for not sharing information that Castiel had no right to know—Dean’s sexuality was his own business. But it was also true that Dean’s dating history was well-known among other dancers, so Dean should’ve _known_ his attraction to men would come up at some point. But then again, Dean would think that as someone so persecuted by his own sexuality, Castiel would understand why Dean didn’t shout his from the rooftops.

After several hours of thinking, and a beer or two, Dean had come to the conclusion that he’d fucked up. Whether or not Castiel was entitled to information or not, he should have spent more time being open and less worrying about Castiel betraying him. Dean laughed at the irony; his own mistrust of Castiel caused him to destroy Castiel’s trust in him as well as any shot they had at winning the competition. 

Still, he had just been _so happy_ seeing Castiel again. When he walked into Aaron’s studio, he felt his heart pound twice as fast in his chest as his eyes landed on Castiel. He’d ached to reach out and envelop Castiel in his arms, and had only just refrained.

And then, Castiel’s anger blindsided him. Dean’d been so affronted by Castiel’s accusations, but it had all been true. And he felt so _stupid_ for ever believing a goddamned word of gossip; of course Castiel had always been on his side. Even so, he felt nauseous at the idea of telling Castiel about the things they’d been through—him and Sam—or the things Dean’d done. Castiel wouldn’t be on his side after _that_ conversation. 

"I fucked up. I fucked it all up _bad_ , Sam.” Dean said into his hands when Sam’s video call came through. They hadn’t talked on a Friday in a while, but Dean let Sam know earlier in the day that he needed some brotherly advice.

“Then I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Sam said, shrugging. Sam was still in his white sleep shirt and his hair was a tangled mess. Dean longed for Sam to be home. They’d never really had a point in their lives when they could just hang out and shoot the shit, and Dean acutely felt that loss. Too much time had passed with Dean on the road or Sam overseas, and not enough with them sitting on Dean’s porch, the sweltering summer sun making cool beers sweat in their hands.

Sam continued, interrupting Dean’s train of thought, “Maybe you _should_ tell Cas—”

“ _No_ ,” Dean cut him off, “End of discussion.”

Sam scowled. “Fine. Can’t you just _talk_ to him again? And this time _actually_ talk? You know, about your feelings and shit.”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean sighed, “I don’t want him to hate me and I don’t think he wants to talk to me right now.”

Sam gave Dean a frank look. “And you don’t want to tell him about Mom and Dad and the drugs thing and—”

“Stop stop stop.” Dean put up his hands and waved them around like he was trying to stop a moving vehicle. “He’ll definitely hate me if he knows all of that.” Dean grinned, but from what he could see of the box that had his own face, his smile had none of the mirth he’d meant to include. 

“Oh, Dean.”

“Yeah yeah yeah.” Dean rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re gonna say. But all that stuff’s none of his business.”

“I don't mind if you tell him,” Sam said seriously, “Hell, it’d be good for you if you _did_ tell him.”

Dean’s face fell. “I can't—”

Sam cut him off, “You can and you should. I don't think he's going to start hating you when he hears about _my_ —that's right, _my_ not _your_ —mistakes and a whole mess of things we had zero control over.” 

Dean tried to interject, to argue, but Sam just smiled wryly. “And I guess my mistakes are coming around to bite _you_ in the ass again.”

“Sammy, what are you talking about?” Dean asked, confused. Sam hadn’t done anything to cause Dean to mistrust Castiel.

Sam sighed, “I’m sorry I listened to that jackass Uriel. I shouldn't have listened to anything he had to say and I shouldn't have repeated it.” 

Oh, _that_. Dean shook his head. “That’s not your— It’s my fault for letting it get into my head.”

“No, this is on me for even mentioning it.” Sam pointed at himself to make his point. “Uriel’s tried to stir up shit before, and I should’ve seen this coming. Even if what he said was true, he didn’t give me the whole story, so I fed you bad information.”

Dean never knew how to take Sam’s apologies, so he just waved Sam off. He’d never be able to convince Sam that it was him alone who fucked things up—or caused someone else to fuck up—so there was no point trying to argue the point any further. 

Dean wracked his brain for what to say next, but Sam caught him off guard. “So if you’re not gonna tell Cas,” he started, fiddling with his watch band nervously, “maybe it would be best if you let me talk to him, okay?”

“Sam, no. You don’t have to do that,” Dean said.

“I want to. Please?” Sam gave Dean his biggest, saddest puppy dog eyes and Dean could feel his resolve cracking. Dean sighed. He’d been worn down too many times by that damned expression, and this time was no different. 

“Fine. You can talk to him … sometime.”

“Sometime _soon_ , Dean,” Sam countered. “But you and me— _we’ll_ definitely talk on Tuesday as usual. Same bat-time, same bat-channel, no excuses.”

“Okay okay,” Dean agreed, smiling at Sam, but guilt washed over him. He couldn’t tell Sam that getting Castiel to his house without coercion anytime soon didn’t seem very likely. Who knew how long it would take for this to blow over—if it _ever_ blew over.

“And Dean, one last thing,” Sam stopped him just before Dean ended the video chat, “I know you want to get him back on your side—otherwise you wouldn’t have asked to talk to me. But are you doing this so you can _win_? Or because you care about the guy, and you’re sad because you hurt him? It makes a big difference.”

Sam signed off, and his words rattled around in Dean’s skull. Of course Dean wanted to win, and in order to win, getting back Castiel’s trust was not negotiable. But he knew that wasn’t why he’d called Sam. Ever since talking with Charlie, all the reasons why he _shouldn’t_ be with Castiel seemed less and less substantial. He’d sworn off one night stands in the hopes of finding someone who would be his friend and partner and equal. 

Someone who looked and acted a lot like Castiel.

Dean buried his head in his hands. He just hoped that Castiel would give him a chance to fix things. Otherwise, he’d be out of the competition in just a week or two. But even worse, Castiel would be out of his life—for good.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel hadn’t been in a good mood since Dean’d seen him last, but it seemed to worsen after the end of Monday night’s show. And really, Dean couldn’t blame him. Krissy and Dean had danced a light and fun quickstep to _[Long Cool Woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1l0xpkk0yaQ)_ all the way to the first perfect 40 of the season. Castiel and Aaron on the other hand…

They had gotten the lowest scores of the night, making it Castiel’s personal worst since the first week of competition. Cassie’d nailed him for everything from timing issues to foot placement. Balthazar had said the romance Aaron was going for was completely unbelievable since it didn’t even seem like Castiel and Aaron _liked_ each other. Pam had complimented Castiel’s dedication and Aaron’s choice in costumes (vaguely woodsmen-y) before trailing off awkwardly, pointedly avoiding talking about the actual dancing. And Crowley had called their dance the worst Argentine tango of the season and “a contender for the worst Argentine tango of all time.” 

So, overall, not a great night for Castiel. And that spelled uncertainty for Dean.

Dean tried not to dwell on the thought that he could be out of the competition in just a week, but there was no escaping the fact that Castiel was in a bad position going into week six. While Castiel’s scores from Movie Night the week before had been his personal best all season, the upcoming elimination was based on a combination of Movie Night _and_ Switch Up scores and votes. That meant that even if they’d gotten a perfect score and all the viewer votes from Movie Night, having the lowest scores and middling votes from the Switch Up could easily take them out of the running. 

Then, on the off chance that they did make it through to the next week, they still needed a great performance of their cha-cha-cha on Latin Night (because for some reason, the producers had decided that every week needed a theme now) to keep going in the competition. Despite Dean’s best efforts teach Castiel the dance, Castiel’s stony demeanor and new preference for answering questions with silence or grunts didn’t make Dean very optimistic. 

Directly after the show, most other couples reunited with smiles and hugs. Castiel barely met Dean’s eye before making an excuse and leaving. Now back in the practice studio, Castiel barely listened to Dean’s instructions and wandering off to check his phone every few minutes. Dean tried to focus on teaching Castiel the dance to avoid any touchy topics, but Castiel was barely taking in his instruction.

Dean hadn’t seen Castiel this closed off since the first night of the competition and it was making him anxious. Dean was growing frustrated—he was starting to think that dancing with a brick wall would be easier. And to make matters worse, the more Dean tried to get a reaction out of Castiel, the closer Castiel came to snapping himself. 

“You’re moving to the beat and getting to the right spots,” Dean said anger simmering near the surface, “but you’re too stiff.” 

Castiel sighed exhaustedly, “I don’t know what that means.” 

“It means,” Dean said testily, “your foot placement’s all wrong. You can’t get the hip action you need unless you really dig your feet into the floor. If your hips don’t move in this dance, every single judge will call you out on it—just like they did in the Argentine tango. You need to loosen up.”

Castiel grumbled under his breath and Dean rubbed his temples. “Cas, come on man,” Dean said encouragingly, “You got this. I know you’re frustrated—”

Fury burned in Castiel’s eyes. “I’m not frustrated! I’m—” Castiel looked away and took a breath before continuing, a little calmer, “I don’t know what I am.”

“Cas…” Dean reached out to put a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

“No,” said Castiel as he shrugged off Dean’s touch, “I just need some time alone.”

“Dude, I’d love to give you some time off, but we’ve got to nail down this cha-cha-cha and then there’s the dance-off to worry about.” 

Castiel shook his head. “None of that matters, Dean. I’m going to be eliminated this week anyway.”

Castiel was only giving voice to Dean’s own concerns, but he still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Castiel wasn’t usually one to throw in the towel so quickly. “So you’re just going to give up?”

Castiel blew out a long breath of air and the tension slipped out of his shoulders. “I think of it more like conceding to the inevitable.”

“Judges points are only part of the equation, Cas,” Dean said, stepping around to face Castiel and putting his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel tensed and refused to meet Dean’s eyes, but he didn’t try to step away or otherwise remove Dean’s hands. “From what Charlie told me, people _like_ you. They like _us_. We’re not done yet, man.” Dean grinned, punching Castiel lightly on the shoulder. He slung an arm over Castiel’s shoulder and started steering back to their starting positions when he heard Castiel start to mumble something.

“Dean,” he said clearer but still just as quiet, “What if I want it to be over?” 

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and balked. His arm slipped from Castiel’s shoulders as Castiel looked anywhere but at Dean. 

“Well …” Dean started, but didn’t know how he was going to finish that sentence. Anything along the lines of “that’s not what we agreed on” sounded cruel, and “that would break my heart because I’m fallin’ for you” was a little too honest.

Dean opted for “I thought we were in this together,” his voice a little more stony than he had planned.

“I just want it to end, Dean,” Castiel said, exhaustion plain in his voice, “I want to go home. I can’t do this—”

“Maybe we _should_ take a break,” Dean said sharply, cutting off whatever Castiel was going to say. He had no interest in hearing what Castiel couldn’t do. He walked out of the studio and out of the building before Castiel could say anything else, and headed toward the patio furniture outside. He threw himself into a chair, and couldn’t help laughing humorlessly at the irony of where he was sitting. Of course, he’d pick the same spot where he and Castiel had decided to make a run for the championship.

Dean looked up at the stormy sky, threatening to open up and rain at any moment on him and the scattered chairs in the courtyard. He felt emotion well up in his chest, and threaten to spill over. He’d really done it—he’d blown his best chance of winning this stupid show and at the same time fucked up whatever he had with Castiel. Castiel couldn’t stand to be around him (of course Castiel didn’t want him—nobody wanted him) and it was all his fault.

He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket to tell Castiel that they were done for the day, when he saw a text from Sam he’d missed. The text had nothing to do with his current issue with Castiel—Sam was just checking in—but it made Dean pause. Maybe it wouldn’t be so crazy to take Sam up on his offer, to have Sam give Cas all the details of their sordid past.

Dean’s hands shook with adrenaline and anxiety. If Castiel didn’t hate him already, he might after he heard what Sam had to say. But then again, Castiel’s anger came from Dean being too closed off. Maybe spilling the beans would at least mend _that_ broken bridge. 

But what would Castiel think of him afterwards?

Dean made up his mind. They were already at rock bottom; the worst possible outcome had already come to pass. He could barely feel his thumbs as he pulled up a new message to Castiel and started to type.

_Hey Cas_ , Dean wrote _, Ruby’d kill me if she knew I was texting you, but I want to make things right with you. Meet me at my place tonight?_

With the state of Castiel’s mood, Dean wasn’t sure how Castiel would respond. He saw the little dots move at the bottom of his text window indicating that Castiel was replying, and it felt like years passed before he got a response.

_Fine_ , Castiel wrote simply and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He texted back asking Cas to be there just before Sam’s seven o’clock call and stored his phone back in his pocket.

Now they just had to get through the next three hours without killing each other. 

—

Castiel looked at the built in clock on [dashboard](http://carphotos.cardomain.com/ride_images/1/794/2641/1983820002_large.jpg) and watched as the rightmost number flip from 4 to 5 so that the clock read 6:55—five minutes until the time Castiel agreed to be at Dean’s house. He berated himself for agreeing to see Dean after work; letting Dean try to mend their relationship wasn’t part of the plan.

And that was Castiel’s biggest issue: Dean was trying so hard. Admittedly, he wasn’t doing that well—Dean’s fallback for uncomfortable situations was to not talk about them. While Castiel had been known to employ the same strategy, Dean’s avoidance of their fight rankled Castiel.

On one hand, it made it easier for Castiel to dance poorly. He didn’t feel as guilty for ruining their chances at winning when he was mad at Dean for lying to him and then pretending like nothing ever happened. But on the other hand, it meant Dean wanted to move past their fight, and Castiel didn’t know if he wanted to do that. Even if they did come to some understanding this evening, there was no guarantee that Dean wouldn’t fall back on old habits some time in the future. Then they’d be right back here, except it would hurt Castiel even more than before.

Castiel killed the ignition with a sigh. Nothing would force him to forgive Dean _or_ forget what he’d done, even walking into that house and listening to what Dean had to say. He dragged his feet up the walk to Dean’s door, dread filling his gut.

Castiel stood on Dean’s front porch, psyching himself up to ring the doorbell while watching the gentle to and fro of Dean’s porch swing. Most of his anger about the situation had been burned off by their big blow out last week, leaving weariness and embarrassment and betrayal in its place. 

Castiel took in one last deep breath to steady himself, put his hand up, and then the door opened on its own.

“Cas,” Dean said breathlessly, beer in one hand and waving Castiel in with the other, “Hurry up.”

Even though Dean wasn’t touching him, Castiel felt Dean pushing him to the dining room table. There, a laptop sat open and waiting, and Dean sat him in front of it.

“Dean what’s going on?” Castiel asked, turning in his seat. Dean reached over Castiel’s shoulder to push a button on the laptop, the hair on Dean’s arm brushing Castiel’s hand. They were so close that Castiel could smell lavender on Dean’s skin, probably from a shower after a day of dancing, and a sudden longing came over Castiel. They’d danced for six hours that day, but Castiel hadn’t _felt_ this close to Dean in so long that he’d forgotten how intoxicating Dean’s presence could be. 

Castiel stared at Dean, making eye contact with him for this first time since their argument. Castiel was still turned awkwardly in his seat as Dean pulled away, but there was something determined in Dean’s gaze and something else Castiel couldn’t name, and Castiel couldn’t look away. 

Castiel took in the sea of freckles that lightly covered Dean’s face and supple invitation of Dean’s lips like he’d never seen them before. Dean’s still slightly damp hair and old worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt made Dean look young and boyish, and a strong desire to hold Dean washed over Castiel. Dean was strong, strong enough to lift fully-grown people over his head and lock his arms in a punishing ballroom frame, but in that moment he looked smaller than Castiel remembered. This was Dean without artifice, without his public face and the persona he wore like a cloak around him.

This was just Dean, and Dean was terrified of what Castiel saw. 

Castiel heard someone clear their throat behind him and the moment was over. Dean looked away, slightly annoyed and Castiel heard a voice come from the laptop. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” the voice said suggestively. 

Castiel whipped his body around, his cheeks burning with embarrassment to see a video of a young man waving.

“You must be Cas,” the man said, “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

Castiel’s brain caught up with what was going on; this must be Dean’s brother. Castiel took a second to compose himself before saying, “And you too, Sam.”

Sam grinned on the other end of the call, wide and sincere. Castiel looked at the room behind Sam; computers sat on desks behind Sam and men and women walked around in DCUs. “Army?” Castiel asked and Sam shook his head no.

“Not anymore,” Sam replied, “I’m with a [PMC](%20) now.”

Castiel nodded his head in understanding. Now he knew _Dean’s_ source for information about his sometimes controversial past in the Navy—he still wondered who Sam’s source was. It wouldn’t surprise him if someone from his old life was now in Sam’s. After all, contractor jobs were much more lucrative than U.S. military ones. But it was a little disappointing that while he was home trying to ‘make a difference’ (or however Hannah described the work he was doing now), there were still people who disagreed with his service even all these years later.

“So Cas,” Sam said as he waved his hand to get Castiel’s attention; he hadn’t realized how much it had drifted from the screen in front of him. “I don’t have a _whole_ lot of time so I’m just going to cut to the chase.”

Castiel could see Dean gesturing for Sam to stop in his peripheral vision, but Sam ignored him, barrelling on full speed ahead,  “What Dean doesn’t want to tell you is that our mom died and our dad abandoned us, and—

“Sam!” Dean shouted.

“I’m an addict and Dean blames himself for it.” Dean groaned as Sam finished, “So I think that’s just about everything.”

“You can’t just say it like that!” Dean said, pained, and Castiel wondered how many times the two brothers had covered this ground over the years.

Sam huffed indignantly. “It’s the truth!”

“Yeah, but,” Dean paused, looking for something in his memory and moving his hands around in a vague gesture, “you gotta ease ‘im into it. And you’re not—” Dean dropped his voice to a whisper like the neighbors would hear or the house was bugged or if he said it too loud, it would make it true, “an _addict_. Not anymore.”

Sam smiled a little forlornly as he shook his head. “I am, Dean, and I always will be.” Sam turned to Castiel and added, “But I _am_ 6 years clean.”

“Congratulations, Sam,” Castiel said, and something from earlier in their conversation nagged at him. He looked at Dean, who was destroying the paper label on a beer bottle anxiously and staring at the grain of the wood of his table. Sam said Dean blamed himself for what happened to them, and it was clear that Dean still felt that way. Is that why Dean didn’t want to tell Castiel?

“So, Dean thinks it’s his fault that you’re an addict?” 

Dean bit his lip like he wanted to say something, but refrained. He bounced anxiously from one foot to the other as he waited for Sam’s response.

“Hey Dean,” Sam said gently, “why don’t you go make yourself scarce for a bit?”

Dean nodded and patted Castiel on the shoulder. He trod out of the room towards the back door, looking like a man taking a gallows march, and Castiel’s heart ached for Dean. He wanted to believe that whatever Dean had done _couldn’t_ be as bad as Dean was making it out to be. But, as Dean had already pointed out, they weren’t friends and Castiel _didn’t_ know him that well. 

Sam breathed in deeply, preparing to tell the whole story. “Dean thinks if he’d been around more when we were teenagers that things would be different, and, well, I thought so too for a while.” Castiel looked at him shocked, but he quickly clarified waving his arms in front of his chest, “I don’t anymore, of course!” 

 “But—” Sam shrugged. “My sponsor told me addiction is complicated. Dean and I—we could have had the most perfect fairytale childhood and I’might’ve still ended up an addict. Who knows?”

Castiel rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. He wasn’t a gambling man, but even he would bet that Sam and Dean have had this argument a hundred times over, Dean taking on direct responsibility for Sam’s actions and choices. 

“But Dean doesn't agree with your sponsor,” Castiel said, guessing from what Sam had left out, “He still blames your addiction on _his_ absence, as well as the loss of your parents.”

“Well…” Sam rubbed the back of his neck in an achingly familiar way. “I think _he thinks_ those are the principal parts of it.”

Castiel burned with the need to ask _why_ and _how_ , but he bit his tongue. Sam seemed much more open with his past than Dean, but he didn’t want to push where Sam didn’t want to go. He’d let Sam tell him whatever Sam thought he needed to know.

“So, our mom died when I was six,” Sam said without any preamble, “I don’t remember _too_ much about her, but she and Dean were really close. She was a professional ballet dancer before she got married and taught Dean how to dance. You’ll have to ask Dean to tell you about her sometime.” Sam smiled softly for a moment, a wounded faraway look in his eyes. Dean and his mother had shared something special and profound, something that Sam hadn’t experienced, and Castiel understood how that would hurt. But Castiel could tell that Dean felt her loss in his own way—still dancing all these years later.

“But anyway, her death was ruled to be the result of arson; she was alone in her ballet studio when it caught fire, but the exits were blocked and— Well, the police never caught the guy and that never sat too well with our father. He sort of … checked out after that.” Sam’s face turned hard and angry. Castiel had a feeling that Sam was pulling his punches when it came to explaining what happened to his father.

“Dad drove us up to Sioux Falls one night out of the blue. I can’t remember much from that time, but I do remember that he was in some kind of frenzy or mania. Drove us all night, we stayed with Bobby and Ellen for a few days, and then one night not too long after, he just vanished. Took off in the night again and we haven’t heard from him since. Dean and Uncle Bobby think he’s dead, but …”

“But?” Castiel prompted. Dean had never mentioned his father, and Castiel could understand why. 

“Can’t be sure—guys like John Winchester are tough.” Sam frowned and sighed. “Anyway, so we grew up with Uncle Bobby and Aunt Ellen and Ellen’s daughter Jo—oh that’s right, you know Jo. She’s on the show. Remind me to tell you sometime about when we were kids. Boy do I have some embarrassing stories.” Sam smiled broadly, a look in his eyes suggesting he was remembering something from a long time ago.

“Anyway,” he said after a few moments of recollection, “Once Ellen figured out Dean could dance, Jo and Dean were both pulled from school and put on the competitive ballroom dancing circuit. I still went to public school and I thought I had to be the best, smartest, most involved kid in my class to impress Bobby and Ellen and Dean. I mean, Dean and Jo were _spectacular_ dancers—still are—and some of the best of their generation. In my mind, I had a lot to live up to.

“And I was so _mad_ at Dad for leaving us and Dean for being successful, and I had so much to prove—plus I already had the Adderall prescription for my ADHD…” Sam trailed off, allowing Castiel to put the pieces together for himself: a smart kid who, whether or not it was actually the case, felt like he didn’t get enough attention and turned to drugs to make him stand out. Castiel had seen cases like Sam’s before; while the U.S. Military had a zero tolerance policy and random drug screenings, that didn’t stop some of his classmates in the high pressure environment of the Naval Academy from abusing a prescription or two. 

“From there,” Sam continued, “it was just a natural progression. When the doctor figured out I was abusing my meds, he pulled my script and I turned to … let’s say, less than legal means of acquiring amphetamines. 

“Dean found …” Sam swallowed hard and looked over his shoulder, before continuing quieter than before, “Dean found my stash one time when he was home—told me that he wouldn’t tell Bobby and Ellen if I promised never to take them again.” Sam shrugged, smiling ironically. “I lied.” Castiel wondered if that incident was what made Dean feel so guilty, wondered if Dean didn’t cover for Sam just the one time, even without Sam knowing it.

After that, Sam sketched out the worst years of his addiction, leaving out the more gory details. Sam explained that it was easier for him to resume his old habits when Dean and Jo and Ellen went back on the road, and even easier when he wasn’t under Ellen and Bobby’s roof. But involving himself in a lifestyle of illegal drug abuse turned into involving himself with extralegal factions, and he chose not to elaborate on what that all entailed. He might never have run afoul of the police (fortunately), but he didn’t like to think about that year as a homeless youth.

“So, two years later,” Sam continued. “I did a stint in rehab, and put my energy into getting fit as a way of dealing with my demons. And I got healthier. The drugs had killed my appetite and fucked up my heart, so eating well, exercising, all that made me feel like I was in control of my body again.

“I was burnt out on school—for obvious reasons—so I enlisted in the army,” Sam explained, furrowing his brows in a moment of introspection, “I think, I needed that kind of structure in my life. I could still make my own decisions, but the environment and culture made it much more difficult to make self-destructive choices—at least for me.”

Sam finished his story and Castiel said nothing. It was a lot to take in, and he was still trying to figure out why Dean felt that any of it was his fault. Dean hadn’t had any control over what happened to his mother or the poor choices of his father, and certainly not over Sam’s addiction.

Castiel could feel Sam’s anxiety, waiting for Castiel to say something—anything—after spilling out his whole life.

“Thank you for telling me all of that, Sam,” Castiel said earnestly, “I appreciate the trust you’ve placed in me.”

Sam shrugged. “No offense, but it’s not for you, you know? Dean likes you, but he’s so afraid of intimacy.”

“Actually,” Castiel said, a grin tugging on the corner of his mouth, “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

Sam let out his own bark of laughter that turned into a weary sigh. “But I’m serious, Cas. Dean needs someone who knows the whole story and won’t judge him or pity him.”

“But lots of people know,” Castiel said frowning, “he told me everyone in the dancing world knows. Surely at least _one_ person doesn’t pity him.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they _know_. But they treat him like a sob story or a cautionary tale or someone to be pitied. His life—and my life—are just fodder for a giant gossip machine, not—” Sam clenched and unclenched his fists. “ _real people_ who went through some _real shit._ But, from what Dean’s told me, I think you get it, and you get _him_. He has a chance to have something _real_ with you, and I don’t want his stupid over-thinking and emotional constipation to get in the way of that.”

Castiel felt a blush color his face. He did want something real with Dean—at least he had before all of this fighting and lying and mistrust. Part of him still wished that Dean had just _told him_ , saving them both the week of anger and grief, but he couldn’t blame Dean for wanting to protect this part of himself. Everyone in his sport knowing the general outline of story without any of the painful truths of the whole affair would make Castiel just as protective, if not a little bitter and secretive as well. 

“Sam, I—” Castiel said, his voice cracking in his dry throat. 

“Oh shit!” Sam cut him off. “I have to go to work soon. Will you grab Dean for me so I can say goodbye?”

Castiel heard the clack of shoes on the hardwood behind him, the first ambient sound Castiel’d been aware of since Sam began his story. Castiel whipped around to see Dean, his expression giving nothing away as he approached the computer. Dean’s jaw was clenched tight, but he forced a smile to wave goodbye to Sam.

The video chat window closed and the room was silent. During Castiel’s conversation with Sam, the sun had gone down, leaving only the blue light of the laptop to illuminate him and Dean. Dean’s posture was closed off and as soon as Sam was gone, he moved to the far end of the dark dining room. 

“Dean …” Castiel said and took a step toward Dean. 

Dean flinched. “Now you know,” he said, his lips a firm line. Castiel thought the low light might be playing tricks on his eyes, but he thought he saw Dean’s mouth quiver ever so slightly and silvery tear tracks on his cheeks. 

“You’re very strong, Dean,” Castiel said sincerely and took another step in Dean’s direction, approaching him like he would a wild animal, like at any moment Dean might spook and dart away. “You and your brother have been through much, but you have persevered together.” 

“If I hadn’t abandoned him like Dad, it wouldn’t’ve happened at all—” Dean’s voice cracked and Castiel stepped again.

“That’s not true, Dean.”

“How do you know?” Dean asked defensively, trying to step away from Castiel as he came closer, and was stopped by the wall.

“I know _you_ ,” Castiel stated simply and he felt it was the truth. He’d spent all this time feeling hurt and betrayed because he given so much and gotten so little in return. But he _had_ figured Dean out, and knowing all the details of Dean’s life didn’t change Castiel’s assessment of him. 

Castiel cut in before Dean could argue. “I’m sorry for being upset with you. I let my hurt feelings run wild. I, uh—” Castiel blushed again and counted on the low backlight to hide it. “I do want us to be friends.”

Dean’s features were drawn in pain. “I’m so sorry for saying that shit, Cas,” he said emphatically, “I was angry. We are friends; we always have been.”

“I’m sorry, too. Can go back to the way things were before?” Castiel asked hopefully.

“No,” Dean said plainly, shaking his head, “We can’t go back.” Castiel frowned worriedly, but Dean smiled shakily at him. “We go forward, together. You could get eliminated this week, and nothing we do between now and Monday can change that. But if we’re still around at the end of the night on Monday, we have to’ve danced the best we’ve danced all season.”

“I’m also sorry I did so poorly on Monday,” Castiel grimaced, “That was … by design.”

Dean threw up his hands. “Really, Cas?!” he asked in mock exasperation.

“But I’m not gonna do that anymore. I’m going to do my best from here on out,” Castiel promised, drawing a cross over his heart with one finger.

Dean smiled at the promise. “Yeah, you better,” Dean said and playfully shook Castiel by the shoulder. Dean’s hand lingered on Castiel’s bicep, his thumb tracing circles in what Castiel could only describe as a caress. 

Dean cleared his throat and pulled his hand back. Castiel arm felt odd where Dean had touched it, and he missed Dean’s touch almost instantaneously. Castiel’s body moved on its own, leaning toward to try to recapture the lost touch. 

“So was there anything else you wanted to know?” Dean asked, his voice husky and his eyelids drooping.

They were so close again, and Castiel heart thudded in his chest. “Not that I can think of right now,” Castiel said, though it felt like his voice was miles away and someone else was talking, “But can I reserve the right to ask later?”

Dean nodded, his face inches from Castiel’s. “As long as I can do the same,” he said softly, and Castiel felt the words more than heard them.

Castiel would barely have to move to press his lips to Dean’s and so much of him wanted to close that gap. It would be so easy to fulfill the promise in Dean’s eyes, pressing Dean up against the wall and giving in to the feelings that had been churning in his gut since Dean opened the door.

But Castiel took a step back instead.

“I should go home,” Castiel said and Dean blinked, obviously confused.

“Yeah,” he replied and stepped past Castiel to walk Castiel to the door.

Castiel followed him silently, both berating himself for pulling away and congratulating himself for his willpower. 

Dean opened the door and leaned on the doorjamb, supple and soft and indescribably inviting. He grinned at Castiel, both amiable and full of intent. Castiel could only imagine what would happen if he took that grin up on its offer. 

“So,” Dean said as Castiel stepped out onto the porch, leaning into Castiel’s space, “See you first thing tomorrow morning.”

As much as Castiel wanted to lean back into Dean’s space, he held himself firmly on his side of the threshold. “Tomorrow morning.” Castiel nodded. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.” The door closed and Castiel walked briskly to his car. He needed to call Hannah.


	10. Chapter 10

“No, that’s supposed to be a triple-step,” Dean said, stopping Castiel mid-step. 

Castiel blew out a sigh of frustration and Dean was worried he was pushing Castiel too far. He’s watched Castiel really rededicate himself to dancing after his talk with Sam, but that didn’t magically make him as good as a professional. For Castiel, it seemed relearning the jive was like safe cracking a mental vault—he’d learned the steps once, but had sealed them away after the first week of competition. Now, he was trying to break back into that vault, and mostly triggering the security alarms and accidentally blowing things up in the process. 

“I just don’t understand why we have to dance the jive again,” Castiel said.

Dean dropped Castiel’s arms and turned him toward the mirror. “The short answer is,” Dean said, “they need to fill out the two-hour runtime, but there are still too many people to have everyone do a second dance, so they have us do a dance-off. Now do the steps again and watch your feet.”

Castiel repeated the four bar part he was struggling with until Dean was happy that his feet were doing the right things at the right time. Castiel’s upper body was doing something weird, though.

“Good,” Dean said as he came around behind Castiel, “So this dance will be a little more spontaneous than the routines we’ve done before. The dance-off looks kind of like a competition style dance—which the audience likes—except the couples are eliminated as they dance. The last three dancers get extra points; one for third place, two for second place and three for first.” Dean put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders to change his posture, and Castiel flinched under his hands. Dean caught a glimpse of Castiel’s face in the mirror—a slight grimace crossed his features, before a more neutral expression replaced it. Dean dropped his hands and moved back around to face Castiel.

Dean cleared his throat. “And we need all the help we can get,” he said more to his shoes than to Castiel, “So we gotta dance the jive again and it’s gotta be perfect.”

Castiel picked up Dean’s hands in jive hold and tilted his head toward the stereo, waiting for Dean to start up the music again. 

All morning, Dean felt Castiel holding himself at a distance. Accidental bumps and touches made Castiel leap miles away, and he barely met Dean’s eyes. But then, if Castiel initiated the touch, it was so sure and firm and more than enough to make Dean dizzy.

Still waiting, Castiel sent him a small smile. Dean didn’t know what to think of this smile, or any of the other dozen he’d been sending Dean’s way since they started rehearsal. It was so different from Castiel’s usual frown or rare grin. Could it be pitying?

And the whole situation—every insecurity he felt and every strange look from Castiel—it was all Dean’s fault. 

They started dancing, and Dean went on autopilot, letting muscle memory take over. He couldn’t think about the jive when he kept wanting to mentally smack himself every time he thought about how close he’d gotten to kissing Castiel. After hearing all the worst parts of his life out loud, he was distressed and his out-of-control emotions had made him almost … 

And of course Castiel didn’t want that; that’s why he’d walked out when he did. Castiel may not be mad at Dean anymore, but that didn’t mean he wanted a romantic relationship. And with the way he was acting around Dean now, Dean had a pretty good sense that Castiel was trying to tell him that he wasn’t interested. 

Dean could live with that. It’s not like he was _in love_ with the guy or anything. He just thought there was some potential between them, some spark that could ignite into romance under the right conditions.

And so what if Castiel didn’t want to get involved with a guy with all this baggage. Dean didn’t blame him for that. Dean was pretty sure that if anyone else listened to Sam’s story, they’d run for the hills. They certainly wouldn’t show up the next morning to dance rehearsal like someone’d lit a fire under them. 

But Castiel had; he come in ready to work and work hard, and that made the secret, hopeful part of Dean want to sing songs while running over mountaintops. Castiel didn’t want to kiss Dean (and Dean was fine with that—really fine, actually) but he did want to commit to finishing out the season strong. 

At least, Dean guessed that this was Castiel with his nose to the grindstone. He’d been even less talkative than usual, but he also hadn’t let little frustrations bog him down. Dean would have worried that there was still some lingering resentment as they ran through the jive, if it weren’t for look of intense concentration in Castiel’s eyes. Or the speed at which he started picking up the cha-cha-cha. Dean figured that if Castiel still hated him, he wouldn’t see such rapid improvement. 

Now, that’s not to say that Castiel was perfect; he still struggled with creating a character when he performed, and the stylistic touches of the dance still needed a lot of work. Castiel’s brows were furrowed constantly in concentration as he danced, as if moving his feet required doing complicated math with every step. No matter how many times he told Castiel to loosen up or focus more on what his body was doing rather than where it was going, it just didn’t seem to connect. 

It took until Friday afternoon for Dean to put all the pieces together. They were eating their lunches in the studio kitchen in silence, Dean tapping his toes and bobbing his head to the newest Taylor Swift song (a detail that would _never_ be shared with Sam) and Castiel staring off into middle distance above Dean’s left shoulder. Dancers and celebrities came and went, shaking their hips or mouthing the words—or in Jo’s case, belting out the chorus and using Dean as a dancing prop. 

But Castiel did nothing. He didn’t tap his fingers on the table or move his head side to side or anything. And then Dean thought back to every other time Castiel’d listened to music around Dean. Castiel _never_ connected to the music with his body when left to his own devices (and putting his hands over his ears when Metallica played in Dean’s car didn’t count).

For Castiel, dance was just _work_ —just another job to him with a contract and everything. Castiel didn’t know how to dance just for fun, and so when Dean told him to have fun, feel the music, loosen up, Castiel had no frame of reference. 

Dean sat on this thought as they got back to rehearsal, wondering how _anyone_ could go their whole lives like this. Castiel had been brought up in a strict home and then shipped off to military school, but Dean knew plenty of guys through Sam who partied and partied _hard_. In fact, Dean smirked as he remembered, Sam had a few incriminating photos of their cousin Christian, between deployments and out on the town, shit-faced and dancing on a table.

And even military schools had proms and shit—surely Castiel danced at one of those.

“Cas,” Dean said, stopping Castiel mid-turn on a Friday afternoon, “did you go to your prom?”

Castiel turned to face Dean and looked at him like he’d grown an extra head. “No,” he said slowly, uncertain.

“I was just wondering …” Dean started, but Castiel stopped him before he could ask the question ‘Do you know how to have fun dancing?’.

“While I do think rites of passage are important, I found the whole ritual to be an excuse for people to dress up and have sex,” Castiel provided, blushing a little, and Dean raised an eyebrow at him, not convinced at all.

“And,” Castiel added sheepishly, “I didn’t have anyone to go with.”

“There it is,” Dean said jokingly as he touched Castiel on the shoulder. “So you didn’t do prom, but have you ever gone out dancing?”

“I haven’t had many opportunities,” Castiel replied, letting Dean touch him instead of shrugging off the contact, “As I’ve told you, I haven’t done much dating and—”.

“Do you want to?” Dean asked, aiming for nonchalance but probably ending up somewhere around enthusiastic kid going through puberty. Just because Castiel didn’t push him away, didn’t mean he wanted to resume hanging out after work. 

“Um,” Castiel started, “Sure?”

“That’s real convincing,” Dean said with a playful smile. “I know a great place. Cool people, great tunes, the whole works. Tonight work for you?”

“Okay, Dean,” Castiel agreed. Dean reset them to spot a little earlier in the dance than where he’d stopped Castiel—the Cuban breaks were giving Castiel fits anyway. 

Dean squashed down the butterflies that leaped into action in his stomach. This wasn’t a _date_ —it was instructional. Even with Castiel giving him that small smile.

—

They walked into Ellie’s, a Cuban restaurant on Ventura Boulevard, just as what Castiel suspected was the usual salsa night crowd started to show up. The outside of building wasn’t anything special, just the generic façade of the strip mall, but inside, the colorful murals on stucco walls and multi-colored string lights strung from the rafters gave the interior a life of its own. The music was already playing, something loud and fast, and the beats of the drums vibrated in Castiel’s chest. Most of the tables had been cleared away after the dinner rush to make room for dancing, but the large room that made up the dining area was still packed with bodies. 

Anna had taken him out a few times when they were deployed, and Castiel was surprised to feel a pang of nostalgia for the club scene of Tokyo ten years ago. At that time, he hadn’t really been interested in participating, opting to sit on the edges and have Anna bring him neon-colored drinks with umbrellas and crazy straws instead of dancing.

But now, his relationship with Dean was so tenuous and he wasn’t sure how to act around Dean anymore. At least going out with Dean, dancing with him, spending time with him again, they could maybe get back on the same page at least. He wanted to do something _for_ Dean, make a gesture, and going along with Dean’s plans might be the way to do it. 

Dean pulled Castiel through the mass of bodies, his face lighting up when he saw the lights on the ceiling and the smiles of crowd. He was already in the dancing mood, swaying slightly as he introduced Castiel to a few of the regulars, calling them over from across the room. Dean pointed out the best dancer in the club, a tall and muscled woman, her tanned skin sparkling with sweat from the exertion. But that was nothing compared to her smile. When she danced, she drew the whole room’s attention with her bright laughter that seemed to infect everyone in the immediate vicinity. Dean waved to two of the bartenders and hugged an elderly man, who whispered something scandalous in Dean’s ear, if Dean’s reaction was anything to go by.

Dean shouted over the music, “Jo and I like to come here, when we’re not busy with the show. I’ve never brought anyone but Jo here before.” 

Dean smiled and Castiel felt his face heat up—though he could easily blame the scorching temperature of the room. This was somewhere important to Dean, and it meant something that Dean brought Castiel here. 

Castiel tried to respond, but Dean’s attention was elsewhere. Dean gripped Castiel’s hand tightly as he pulled him through the crowd. Dean still occasionally waved to someone in the crowd, or gave someone a one-armed hug, but any greeting was brief. Dean was looking for someone and dragging Castiel along to find them.

After a few minutes of searching—and Castiel trying to not to run into anyone or have his feet stepped on—Dean spotted the person he was looking for by the DJ. Dean led Castiel over to the young Cuban-American woman in a tank top and shorts who was giving instructions to the DJ. When Dean and Castiel got within five feet, she looked up, a flash of recognition crossing her face as she saw Dean. She jumped down from the small platform the DJ was situated on and ran over to hug Dean.

“Where’ve you been?” she shouted over the music, her mouth inches from Dean’s ear. Castiel felt an irrational pang of anxiety seeing her face so close to Dean’s, but he quickly sublimated it; after all, Dean’s personal life wasn’t any of Castiel’s business.

“I’ve been busy,” he replied with a shrug, “new season and all.”

She nodded before turning to look at Castiel. She eyed him critically and gave a meaningful look to Dean. Castiel felt like a whole conversation happened in a look, and he hadn’t understood any of it.

“Oh!” Dean exclaimed, “Ellie, this is Castiel Novak. He’s my partner on the show.”

“I know exactly who he is—I have a TV, you know,” she said, “But I knew you had better manners than to not introduce us. I’m Ellie, by the way.” She stuck out her hand for Castiel to shake and he took it tentatively. He supposed there was a past between Dean and Ellie, but he had no idea if their banter was playful, or if it was something closer to how Meg talked to him.

“Nice to meet you,” Castiel said solemnly, his voice barely rumbling over the din of the music, “You have a lovely establishment.”

Ellie grinned, more at Dean than Castiel, and said, “Finally. Someone with some manners.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Thanks Ellie,” he said, “Castiel may have manners, but he needs some help in the dancing department.”

“And Mr. Professional Dancer can’t help him?” Ellie asked, raising one eyebrow. Dean blushed, and again, Castiel felt like he missed an entire conversation.

“Dean said I don’t know how to have fun when I dance,” Castiel replied for Dean, and Ellie let out a bark of laughter. 

“Okay I can work with that,” she said and beckoned over one of the nearest dancing couples. She spoke to the man and woman quickly in Spanish, and from his rudimentary knowledge of the language, Castiel could pick out a few words, but not enough to get any real sense of what they were saying. Both of them looked at Castiel hungrily, and told Ellie, “sí!” 

Before Castiel could protest or figure out what was going on, both of them dragged Castiel to a spot on the dance floor away from the main throng of dancers. He looked back at Dean, pleading for some intervention, but Dean just shrugged and gave him a small wave. Castiel turned back to his captors, who were chatting with each other in quick, colloquial Spanish.

They let go of Castiel long enough to show him a few simple moves and Castiel couldn’t help but be mesmerized by their dancing. Their movements were sharp and clear, but their bodies moved together so sensually. He especially noticed the way the woman’s short skirt flared out on every turn and the flex of the man’s pectorals under his open button down, which made Castiel a little hot under the collar. 

The woman was short, probably no more than five-two or -three in her heels, but she commanded her partner and the entire dancefloor. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back in a high pony tail, but still cascaded down the open back of her dress, almost to her waist. Her partner always seemed to know where to put his hand on her bare back to avoid her hair, his dark skin contrasting sharply with her pale back. He was a little shorter than Castiel, but built like ox. Despite his size, he moved so gracefully that Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off the sway of his hips or the bend and turn of his torso.

As the couple demonstrated the dance, Castiel tried to relate it to the cha-cha-cha that he’d been practicing all week, but their hold seemed non existent and the basic just a suggestion. He furrowed his brows and tried to analyze the steps, but the man waved him toward them before Castiel could completely break it all down. 

The man stood next to Castiel, shoulder to shoulder, and gestured for Castiel to try a step. Castiel put his foot down and was immediately stopped. The woman said something in Spanish that Castiel guessed meant “that was wrong,” and came to stand on Castiel’s other side. The three of them now in a line, she urged Castiel to go again after demonstrating the movement again. He stepped again—this time placing his foot, and bending his knee more—and was rewarded with tut-tutting. The man came around behind Castiel and put his hands on Castiel’s hips. Castiel felt his face go hot as he felt the very attractive man step into Castiel’s space and move with him.

Castiel tried the steps again with the man dancing behind him, hands still on Castiel’s hips, as the woman came close to hold Castiel’s hands. 

“Like that,” full-lips said against Castiel’s ear in heavily-accented English, and all the blood in Castiel’s body headed south. For most of his post-puberty life, Castiel’d been celibate, avoiding potentially sexual situations both for lack of general interest, as well as fear of being found out. But here, in this restaurant-turned-club with nearly six feet of muscle hovering behind him and a lot more cleavage than he was used to seeing dancing in front of him, he let himself relax and enjoy the low hum of arousal. And, to top it all off, he was having fun with this couple, who laughed when he did well and gently corrected him with firm touches when he made a mistake.

The man pulled away after only a few steps and Castiel mourned the loss. Once they were confident he wasn’t going to embarrass himself, they pulled him into the crowd, teaching him turns and how to move around on the dance floor. He alternated between dancing with the woman or man alone, and dancing with both of them, the man holding one of Castiel’s hands and one of the woman’s. In either case, in the organized chaos of the dancefloor, he ended up dancing with hands grazing his hips or chest or back—usually more than his aroused brain could count. 

He bumped into other couples occasionally, but they usually laughed off his blunder. He picked up another dance partner that way—a handsy septuagenarian who only came up to his shoulders. She insisted that he dance with her for the next song, but as soon as a man (Castiel assumed he was her husband) started dancing with Castiel’s salsa teacher, she let Castiel go.

He spotted Dean a few times as he learned to dance; for the most part, Dean spent the time Castiel danced just talking with Ellie, sending her small, familiar smiles. They laughed together and Castiel’s heart lurched in his chest. Dean’s laugh was so earnest and wide—Castiel wanted so badly to make Dean laugh like that. 

He also caught the two of them dancing once. Watching the intricate arm tricks and turns Dean and Ellie did when they danced (or really, watching the movement of Dean’s hips), Castiel missed a beat, and got a playful swat on the ass from the man for his mistake.

They paused to regroup and start dancing again, but before they could begin again, Castiel asked, “Could you teach me that?” and pointed to Dean and Ellie. The man and the woman looked at each other thoughtfully before shrugging and nodding. They demonstrated what must have been an easier arm lock twice before stepping Castiel through the movements slowly. Castiel forgot about Dean as he tried to master the dance, losing himself in the movement with his sexy partners.

—

Dean had forgotten how much fun Ellie was. She was smart and pragmatic—two things that made her a shrewd business owner—but with a streak of toward sarcastic humor. She also noticed everything, which usually didn’t work out in Dean’s favor.

Like tonight.

They’d been talking for close to an hour already, laughing and telling stories, with Dean glancing occasionally to Castiel as two of Ellie’s regulars helped him out. They’d exhausted most of their usual conversation topics, and Dean felt it was finally time to bring up a more sensitive topic.

 “How’s your mother?” Dean asked, head bowed close to Ellie’s as they tried to be heard over the music. 

She smiled, a little sadder than before. “The doctors hope for the best, but—” with that she shrugged, “who knows.” When Dean had first started coming to Ellie’s, it had been run by Ellie’s mom. Over the past five years or so, her health had been slowly deteriorating, not enough to need her to be in a facility, but enough that Ellie took over her mother’s restaurant-slash-salsa club.

Dean gave her his own sad smile. “She still cook you Sunday dinners?”

“Every week,” Ellie replied, “though she’s still bugging me about giving her grandchildren.”

Dean chuckled. He’d been to a few dinners with Ellie and her mom—mostly by accident since he’d stopped by to see Ellie, and been drawn into her mother’s home—and Dean’d gotten the same sort of questions. “Yeah, what else is new?” He asked sarcastically. 

She laughed in response, throwing her head back and exposing the long column of her throat and the tops of her breasts. Dean’s eyes were drawn to the exposed skin, and he had no doubts that Ellie hadn’t intended for him to notice.

“So Dean, speaking of,” Ellie started, licking her lips and giving Dean her sexiest look, “what are you doing after this?”

“I have to take Castiel home,” Dean responded, trying to play dumb. He liked Ellie—he liked her _a lot_ —and she was exactly his type of woman. But while he may think a roll in the hay with Ellie would be a blast, there’s no way it would be more than just a night of fun, and he’d meant what he told Charlie. At twenty-nine, he’s just getting too old for hookups.

“And after?” She asked suggestively, eyelids heavy and leaning forward on the table to show off her cleavage. 

It was tempting, but Dean still couldn’t say yes. He gave her a pained look. “I can’t.”

She blinked, surprised. Few people declined what Ellie offered. 

“I mean, it’s not like I don’t _want_ to,” he said, backpedaling defensively. 

“No, it’s okay,” she said, a little hurt in her voice. She looked over at Castiel and Dean’s eyes followed hers. Castiel was still fumbling through an underarm turn, but laughing as he was corrected. Dean felt a tug on the corner of his mouth, and even in the dim lighting of the club, Ellie didn’t miss it. “You really don’t.”

“Ellie,” he pleaded, “it’s not like that between us.”

“Not yet,” she said, sighing, “Don’t worry, only my pride’s hurt. Let’s not talk anymore.” Dean followed her onto the dancefloor; there was no point in trying to argue the point or apologize anymore. She had already moved on, in her own way, and while Dean felt guilty about hurting her feelings, he was glad for it. Ellie might tease him about it later, but she wasn’t going to hold it over his head for the rest of his life. 

They danced for a few songs together, Dean just letting himself enjoy dancing with someone he didn’t have to teach and correct for once. He loved dancing with Castiel, especially during those rare moments Castiel let himself get lost in the dance instead of worrying about every little mistake he made. But Ellie was a phenomenal dancer, and dancing with her was like dancing with a pro. She danced like she spoke, sultry and sensual, and Dean felt more than one pair of eyes on them.

Dean spotted a few men waiting in the wings for a turn with her, and he knew he was no longer needed as Ellie’s partner. He just hoped that one of her future partners wouldn’t overthink her proposal like Dean had. 

Dean excused himself from Ellie, and another man immediately stepped in to take his place. Once he figured that Ellie would be okay with her new partner, he found Castiel dancing in his corner with the couple of regulars. Castiel had one arm behind his back and the other over his head as a woman stepped around him. She laughed when Castiel got stuck, and Dean smiled fondly. 

She gently untangled Castiel and they tried the arm lock again, this time succeeding in getting her around Castiel without Castiel’s arms locked in odd positions with a little guidance from the man standing next to Castiel. The man spoke in low tones to Castiel, whispering in his ear, and Dean was struck with warring emotions; on one hand, he would love to be the man pressing himself against Castiel, whispering dance instructions into his ear. But on the other hand, watching Castiel move between two of the most attractive people Dean had ever seen was … doing _things_ to Dean. His brain immediately jumped to an image of the three of them in bed, naked and laughing, as the two of them taught Castiel more than just how to move his body for dancing. 

Dean cleared his throat, partially to get Castiel’s attention, but also to try to rid his mind of a naked Castiel. Castiel’s face lit up when he saw Dean, and Dean’s heart melted a little at the sight. Castiel hadn’t looked at him like that before the Switch Up, and Dean had missed when things were easy between them, when Castiel seemed like he actually wanted to see Dean.

“Dean,” he shouted, before turning and thanking his dance partners. They each gave him a hug and disappeared into the crowd. “Dance with me?”

Dean blushed and nodded. Castiel grasped Dean’s hands in the social dance style—a loose and natural hold Dean much preferred over the stiff ballroom salsa hold—and when the next song started up, they joined in with the rest of the crowd and danced. Castiel moved more easily than he had in ages, and actually smiled as he danced. Dean felt his own smile tugging at his lips as he watched Castiel _enjoy_ himself as he danced. 

They danced the turns that Castiel’d learned, and Dean even gave Castiel some pointers on the arm trick Castiel’d been working on. Despite Castiel’s missteps and mistakes, he looked much more like a Latin dancer than before. His arms were no longer stiff and stilted, and his hips swayed like a pro’s. And best of all, Castiel was enjoying himself; instead of fixating on every little mistake, like he had in the studio, he just laughed when he accidentally ran into Dean or went the wrong way on a turn.

Dean also enjoyed feeling Castiel pressed close in a non-work situation. Castiel was here because he wanted to go out dancing with Dean, not because his contract told him he had to—at least that’s what Dean was hoping. 

“We may make a dancer out of you, yet,” Dean said and Castiel beamed. 

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but Ellie’s voice booming through the sound system cut him off.

“We have a special performance for you all tonight,” Ellie said, her eyes twinkling somewhat cruelly as they met Dean’s, “Dean Winchester and his partner are going to give you an _exclusive_ sneak peek of their cha-cha-cha before Monday night’s _Ballroom Superstars_.”

The room erupted into cheers and Dean immediately regretted telling Ellie what their song was. Most everyone here knew he was a professional dancer, but one of the reasons he loved coming to Ellie’s was that he was treated just like anyone else. In fact, to the people in _this_ club, knowing he was a professional dancer usually meant more teasing and goading than anything else. 

He shot a serious look up at Ellie, before putting on his best performance smile and taking Castiel’s hand. They walked into an open space created by the other couples and stood in the middle, waiting for _[Don’t You Worry Bout a Thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zywDiFdxopU)_ to start up.

Dean looked to Castiel and cringed; Castiel’s easy smile had been replaced by a pursed lips that might’ve indicated something between terror and fury. Dean put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and leaned in to whisper in Castiel’s ear.

“Don’t worry about getting the steps right,” Dean whispered and thought he felt Castiel shudder, “Remember how we were just dancing and have fun.”

Castiel gave him a curt nod, obviously not convinced this was a good idea, but he still moved to his first position. The music started and Dean counted just loud enough for Castiel to hear through the spoken intro. 

The first few steps had Castiel’s previous robotic movement, but when Castiel put his hands on Dean’s hips to shake them, his stoic expression lightened and he laughed. Dean laughed too, Castiel’s smile taking on that same infectious quality as the dancer he’d pointed out to Castiel earlier that evening. After that, the routine went off with only a few minor hitches, but none of them were stylistic. Castiel made every step with confidence and attack, and his hip action was right on point.

Their dance was shorter than the song, but instead of going into their final pose, Dean led Castiel (with a few whispered words) back into the salsa. Once the crowd saw them switch to salsa, the other couples joined in with them, including Castiel’s earlier partners. 

Dean let one of Castiel’s teachers cut in as the next song started up, her small body slipping in easily between Dean and Castiel. Dean danced side-by-side with her partner, a man he’d seen around the club before, but never had spoken to. Throughout the night, other dancers came over to Dean and Castiel—mostly to give Castiel tips and show him their favorite moves—and Dean and Castiel danced until Ellie kicked them out in the wee hours of the morning. Dean had a feeling that the next morning’s rehearsal would be rough, but he could handle a little tiredness, especially with the way Castiel was practically bouncing with joy as they left the club. They had made a breakthrough tonight, and Dean had a feeling it wasn’t just restricted to their dancing. Castiel smiled the whole way home, telling Dean about every partner he danced with, and everything that he learned.

“My salsa teachers told me to find them again when we go back,” Castiel said, before hesitating. He seemed a little unsure as he searched for whatever he was going to say next. “We are going back, right?” he asked timidly.

Dean barked out a laugh. “Whatever you want, Cas.”


	11. Chapter 11

Bela looked over at them, fake pity in her eyes, and smirked at Dean. Even though she was also standing on the stage in jeopardy with her partner Harry, she clearly thought that Dean and Castiel were a lock for elimination. And while Dean wanted to wipe that smirk off her face, she had a good reason to be cocky—she and Harry had five whole judges’ points on them from their combined Movie Night and Switch Up scores.

On the other side of Dean and Castiel were Meg and Michael, also in jeopardy. They also wore smarmy, punchable smirks, and part of Dean wanted Dick to just announce he and Castiel were out so he wouldn’t have to look at Bela’s and Michael’s self-assured faces anymore.

Dean thought he had come to terms with their impending elimination, but couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Their cha-cha-cha had earned them a standing ovation and a 34, their highest score of the season. Pam and Balthazar gave them their two 9s and a few filthy winks with their comments, but the ogling was probably due to Dean and Castiel simultaneously ripping their shirts open in the middle of the dance. Dean felt a little guilty for relying on something so obviously gimicky, but it seemed to have worked. The audience had flipped for it, and he hoped it would boost the viewer vote side of the equation—if they made it to the next week of competition. 

But, unfortunately for them, Dick Roman was milking the shit out of the tension on the stage. 

“The next couple who is _safe_ is …” Dick started, pausing dramatically as the lights changed and the music picked up in intensity. A producer off screen was holding him to maximize dramatic tension, but Dean thought Dick could have stood around all evening long, making the couples squirm as they waited for him to announce the results.

“Meg and Michael!” 

The audience cheered and spotlight next to Dean turned dark. Meg and Michael gave each other perfunctory half-assed hugs before leaving the stage. It was well-known that Meg and Michael didn’t get along _at all_ , but they could have at least acted like actually enjoyed each other’s company. It stung Dean a little to realize that these two people who hated each other were moving on in the competition, while he and Castiel, friends or whatever they were to each other, would probably be done in just a few minutes. 

Bela looked even more smug than before—Meg and Michael had posed the larger threat. But now, just down to her and Dean, she wasn’t worried at all about her chances of moving on to the next week. She reached over to hug Dean and Castiel, as was the usual etiquette of the two couples before the final results were announced, whispering “bye bye Winchester” in Dean’s ear before she pulled away.

“Castiel and Dean, Harry and Bela,” Jody said a little regret tinging her voice, “while not necessarily the bottom two, one of you had the lowest combined total of viewer votes and judges’ scores from Movie Night and the Switch Up, and will be eliminated now.”

“On this, sixth week of competition,” Dick said, barely holding in his glee, “the couple leaving _right now_ is …”

Dean could hear people shouting Castiel’s name as Dick paused for effect. He felt warm and tingly all over, knowing that people were rooting for them, and actively cheering them on. They had fallen a little in love with Castiel, just like Dean had. And, from what Castiel had passed on from Hannah, they’d also fallen in love with Dean and Castiel as a pair. Hannah’s market research (a several inch thick forest-killer of a document which Castiel had shown him one evening) said that people thought the connection between Castiel and him was something _real_ and tangible and profound. 

They weren’t wrong. Castiel squeezed his hand reassuringly and Dean gave him a lopsided smile. Whatever happened when Dick finally got around to announcing the eliminated couple, Dean was glad he had met Castiel, glad they had danced together, glad that they had become friends. He hoped that after the summer dancing tour and the resolution of Castiel’s lawsuit they could see each other again, and maybe, _just maybe_ , they could try for something more. 

The music changed slightly and Dean tensed every muscle in his body. He would have shut his eyes and gritted his teeth if it weren’t for the millions of eyes on him. 

“Harry and Bela!” Dick announced, and the it felt like the air was sucked out of the room. 

A shocked silence filled the room for a moment, but a dull roar of applause started up again. Dean heard his name being shouted and it kickstarted his brain back into action. Castiel shook him, a disbelieving smile stretching across his face, while Harry and Bela walked down to the dancefloor for their final interview. 

The other remaining couples came back on to the dancefloor as Dick and Jody reminded everyone to vote and what numbers needed to be called for each couple. Castiel tuggged Dean down the steps to Harry and Bela, where Castiel hugged each of them and patted them on the back. Dean caught Bela’s eye, disappointment lurking under her nonchalance. Dean put out a hand to her, and she grudgingly shook it. 

“Well played, Winchester,” she said sardonically.

Dean shrugged. “I was pretty sure Cas and me were done for, too.”

“But you’ve got the viewers on your side. They want to see whatever comes out of this partnership of yours,” she said with a pointed look to Castiel, who was talking quietly and amiably with Meg a few feet away.

Dean felt blood rush to his face, and he tried to hide it with a cough. Was he really that obvious? “It’s not like that, Bela,” Dean said seriously, “He doesn’t think of me like that.”

Bela raised her eyebrows. “And you know _that_ how exactly?”

“I just do,” Dean said with a shrug. 

The show ended as Dean and Bela wrapped up their conversation, and the audience began to file out of the studio. The crew ushered the couples off the dancefloor to one of the staging areas.

Ruby handed Dean a CD. “That has your America’s Choice foxtrot and Trio paso doble music on it. I’ll give you directions about sorting through America’s _suggestions_ for your concept and costumes tomorrow morning. Now, go pick your new trio partner.”

She waved Dean over to where the rest of the couples were congregating. An board sat on an easel in the middle of the room, with pictures of available dancers tacked to it. As Dean rejoined Castiel, he considered the best strategy for their trio dance as he waited to pick his and Castiel’s new partner. They’d been assigned a paso doble, and Dean figured the audience was expecting one of two things: either Dean and Castiel and another male dancer, in which case playing up the bullfighter theme would probably be the most obvious creative decision, or Dean and Castiel and a female dancer, where she is passed between the two men as if they were fighting over her. 

Both of those options made Dean cringe; with only the best couples left, they couldn’t stick to safe and expected anymore at this point in the competition. Dean decided to just pick Tessa—she was the best dancer available to them—and hoped to sort out the creative details later. 

Once the rest of the couples had picked their third dancer for the trio dance, they were dismissed for the night, and Dean walked Castiel to his embarrassing car.

“You did a great job tonight,” Dean said, gently bumping Castiel with his shoulder as they walked side-by-side in t-shirts and jeans through the parking lot.

“Thanks, Dean,” Castiel said to his feet, “But I couldn’t have done it without you.” He looked up at Dean and beamed. Dean looked to his other side; if he kept looking at Cas, he knew he’d get all sappy.

“It was nothing, Cas—Just my job.” 

They walked in silence the rest of the way to Castiel’s car. Dean watched Castiel put his things in the back seat before saying goodbye. Just as he was about to wave, Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and almost lifted him off the ground.

It took a half-second for Dean’s brain to catch up with the situation, but as soon as it did, he hugged Castiel back just as fiercely. This wasn’t a show hug, the brief contractually-obligated displays of camaraderie for the cameras. This was _real_ and it felt _amazing._

Castiel’s hands were strong where they pressed against Dean’s back, and Dean melted into Castiel’s hold. Castiel buried his head in Dean’s neck and Dean’s heart stuttered to a stop. Castiel stubble rasped against his as Castiel’s breath tickled just behind Dean’s ear. The combination of sensations on Dean’s neck—always a particularly sensitive place for him—sent a shiver down Dean’s spine.

Someone laughed a little louder than the soft murmur of the aftershow crew and suddenly Dean felt a few sets of eyes on his back. Dean reluctantly pulled himself out of Castiel’s hug and put an arm’s length between them.

“Anyway,” Dean said, still a little dazed, “see you tomorrow.” Castiel looked just about as out-of-it as Dean felt, eyes glazed over and arms still slightly reaching for Dean.

Castiel shook his head and seemed to come back to himself. He climbed into his car looked at Dean through the window. It was an expression Dean’d never seen before and had no idea how to interpret. The hopeful part of him wanted it to be a look of affection, but Dean’d never been particularly optimistic.

Dean waved goodbye and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he crossed the parking lot to his car.

—

“America has bad taste,” Castiel said from behind his laptop. He was scrolling through the pages and pages of tweets of viewers’ ‘suggestions’ for their foxtrot and cringing. It was bad enough that the viewers got to pick the music, the dance style, the costumes, and the theme, but most of the ideas submitted seemed designed to be outlandish and embarrassing. 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Dean agreed, making a face like he was going to barf. Dean was sitting next to him on Castiel’s step in the studio, leaning over Castiel’s left shoulder to see the screen on the laptop. Occasionally, he’d make Castiel stop, tapping him on the shoulder, and once, Dean reached across Castiel, pressing his arm along Castiel’s, to click on something. Castiel hadn’t heard much of what Dean’d had to say after he did that. 

“Ugh no,” Dean said, pointing to the offending tweet, “this guy wants us to wear thongs and furry boots.” According to Ruby, there had been some pre-screening of ideas, but from the way she was smirking, Castiel thought she must have left in a few just to get their reactions. Castiel was torn between pulling a face of disgust—he really didn’t want to wear a thong on TV—and smiling. After all, Dean in a thong ...

“Stop making that face, man,” Dean said laughing and Castiel wondered what face he had just made. Dean playfully shoved Castiel, and Castiel nearly dropped his laptop in the shuffle. He reached for it the same time Dean did, and they saved it together, Dean’s hands wrapping around Castiel’s as Castiel gripped the laptop. They both pulled the computer back into Castiel’s lap, and as soon as Dean let him go, his hands tingled where they’d touched. 

Castiel tried to put missing Dean’s touch out of his head, and focus on navigating back to where he had left off—ah yes, the thongs. Oh, the _neon green and sparkly_ thongs. He’d missed that detail before.

Castiel quickly scrolled away, before his laptop was imperilled again by Dean’s well-intentioned physical demonstrations of affection. However, following the ‘wardrobe’ suggestion were dozens of tweets begging for them to kiss on screen. Castiel felt his face heat up, as he tried to scroll through the messages quickly. 

“Wait wait.” Dean stopped him with a hand to his arm. Dean took over the track pad and scrolled up to the first kissing tweet. “Are _all_ of these what I think they are?”

Castiel’s heart stopped his chest. He tried to get past these before Dean could see; he dreaded hearing Dean’s reaction to the idea of them kissing, especially if Dean wanted nothing to do with it. Or just laughed it off.

Castiel nodded, not trusting his voice to not give him away.

“Huh,” Dean said noncommittally, “That sure is a lot.” He continued to scroll down, his whole torso leaning heavily on Castiel’s back. Dean’s head was on Castiel’s shoulder, but Castiel didn’t want to risk turning his head to sneak a peek at Dean’s expression. When he got to the end of the tweets about them kissing, he handed the reins back to Castiel and leaned back to look something up on his phone.

Castiel gulped in a lungful of air—he’d stopped breathing the whole time Dean was leaning over him. With Dean looking at his phone, Castiel continued to distractedly look over suggestions. He couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of _Dean_ , how solid he felt against Castiel’s back. Ever since they danced at Ellie’s, Castiel felt a simmer of arousal any time he was around Dean, and a simple touch from Dean could send his body from simmer to full boil. Or something like that. Metaphors had never been his strongest suit.

“This one,” Dean announced triumphantly. He showed Castiel a message from an Instagram user called DrBadass that read:

_Keep it simple. Tuxes and tails._

It was followed by some hashtags that were probably important for counting things and making sure that this message got to them, but Dean pulled the phone away before Castiel could read them.

“That,” Dean said pointedly, standing up and stretching, “I can do.” And Castiel agreed. Tuxedos were classic foxtrot attire, and much better than the thong suggestion. Or half of the other costume ideas he’d scrolled through; he’d seen at least two votes for assless chaps (one with pictures, yikes), a handful for French maid uniforms, and one for druid robes and long white beards.

“And I think I have a concept that will work for us,” Castiel said, pulling up the first post in their hashtag on Instagram. He pointed it out to Dean, and Dean smiled broadly.

“That’s perfect, Cas. Let’s start rehearsing,” Dean said and pulled Castiel up. 

—

Dean stood in the wings on one side the stage, adjusting his black bowtie, with Castiel on the other as their interview package played. Castiel was dressed in an all white tuxedo, to contrast with Dean’s classic black. Both of them had top hats and canes that would be chucked into the hands of troupe members planted in the audience before they danced, but Dean had to admit that he and Castiel cut quite the dashing figures in their full costumes.

The last clip in their package was the scuffle to catch Castiel’s laptop and Dean grinned when the Castiel on the screen jumped in response to his punch. The audience chuckled, and Dean felt laughter bubble out of him. He looked across the stage to Castiel, who was not looking up at the screen, but smiling fondly at Dean instead. Dean coughed to give himself an excuse to look away, but he couldn’t shake the thought of the warmth on Castiel’s face from his mind. It buoyed him going into the first dance of the night. 

The interview ended, and the butterflies in Dean’s stomach kicked into overdrive. It was a risk what they were doing, but Dean thought it had a pretty good chance of paying off. Both of their dances were a little ‘non-traditional’ and Dean wasn’t sure how the more stickler judges (or in Crowley’s case, just a stick-in-the-mud) would react. 

Usually, Dean’s own dancing was rarely on his mind when he danced with celebrities; so many of the dances were second-nature to him. He could focus on making sure the celebrity knew the count or the step or where to go when their mind blanked. But Dean had never danced like he was about to, and this dance was by no means uncomplicated. 

The announcer called their names and the dance, and Dean nodded once to Castiel across the stage. Castiel sent him a thumbs up in reply and the dance began. 

Dean heard the orchestra play the first few bars of _[Anything You Can Do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WO23WBji_Z0)_ , and that was his cue to begin. Both he and Castiel swaggered out from their sides of the stage, meeting in the middle in an homage to _[The Babbit and the Bromide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMKbGRCbsaw)_ , with a sort of false-cheer one-upmanship as they shook hands. They each danced a short solo, stepping in front of the other (Castiel even pretending to step on Dean’s foot as he did so) before Castiel pulled Dean into the foxtrot hold.

Castiel in hold was like looking at a Leyendecker painting—with his back straight and arms up, his whole body transformed into a strong and elegant line. Castiel’s neck stretched as he went into the foxtrot frame, revealing the tanned column of his throat. Though Dean had a precious inch or two on him, Castiel still looked at Dean like he was the taller man, glancing down at him with hooded eyes. 

However, Dean didn’t have time to admire Castiel for long; the pace of the dance meant that Dean had to focus quickly, as Castiel led Dean down the steps in hold. They did a promenade almost the length of the dancefloor, with a promenade check strategically placed in the middle for when they passed the judges’ stand. Once they got to the end of their promenade, instead of turning to go the other direction, Dean performed an over-exaggerated huff of annoyance, and they broke hold dramatically. Dean picked up Castiel’s arms in a broad version of teaching hold, switching lead in the process. 

They took a few steps in the new direction with Dean leading, including a curved feather step that would hopefully get Crowley’s attention. They transitioned that into an underarm turn that ended with another change of lead. Castiel took Dean another length of the floor before they switched again.

The first few lead changes seemed to confuse the crowd. The majority might not know much about dancesport, but they knew dancers didn’t change who was leading in the middle of the dance. But by second time Castiel took over the lead, Dean could hear the audience giggle, and he swelled with pride as they got the joke. 

Castiel played his part perfectly—he took over his sections leading with a comically broad look of exasperation that cracked up the audience every time. They’d also spent quite a bit of time during practice perfecting the timing of the visual jokes, including a pointed look at Dean’s chest during the lyric ‘I can fill it better’ followed by a shrug to the audience.

The dance culminated in a quick succession of lead changes during underarm turns that linked curved three steps so that they were spinning around each other in the middle of the dancefloor as the music picked up at the end of the song. Then, their final pose started out looking like Dean was going to sit on Castiel’s knee, but at the last second Castiel moved, and Dean fell back, unaware that Castiel wasn’t where he was a second ago. Dean took his pratfall and the audience howled with laughter. Castiel looked down at Dean and put out a hand to help him up. Instead pulling Dean up to stand, Dean pulled Castiel down, and Castiel fell inelegantly to the floor as well. Both now sitting on the floor, they both did stuck out their arms and fell back together, and the song ended. 

The audience was immediately on their feet, including Balthazar, Pam and Cassie, and howling with applause and laughter. Crowley clapped disinterestedly, and Dean knew that didn’t bode well for them. Dick did his best to wrangle the cheering crowd, but eventually just had to tell Pam to start her critique over the cries of the audience. 

“It was creative and different and incredibly challenging,” she shouted, “but you pulled it off flawlessly! Well done!” Cassie and Balthazar echoed her comments, agreeing that for a dance with so many moving parts, it was executed to well.

“You have to keep getting better week after week,” Cassie added, “and this just shows how much you’ve improved, Castiel.”

Castiel smiled at her and thanked her bashfully. She turned her full attention to Dean, and Dean felt pinned to the spot by her serious expression.

“And Dean,” she started solemnly before giving him a proud smile, “that was some of the best choreography I’ve seen on this show. Excellent work.”

Dean wanted to deny it, brush off the compliment, but before he could say anything, Crowley had to get a word in edgewise.

“It didn’t look much like a foxtrot in the traditional sense,” he drawled and boos filled the soundstage, “but I must admit that whatever it was, was danced well.” A smattering of confused applause followed Crowley’s comments, but Dean ignored it (and Crowley) as Dick sent Dean and Castiel up to the skybox. 

After a brief interview with Jody, Pam, Cassie and Balthazar held up their paddles, and Dean nearly fainted. He and Castiel’d not only earned his first 10 of the season—they’d earned three. Dean turned to face Castiel, and Castiel looked shellshocked. Even with Crowley’s 8 on the board, their scores put them in third place behind a tied Donna and Victor and Krissy and Aaron, who both had perfect scores for their first round of dancing. They already knew they were in the semifinals—Dick had announced it with a little shock in his voice before they danced—but a 38 could go a long way to getting them to the finals.

“Almost there, buddy,” Dean whispered in Castiel’s ear, hugging him tight as the other couples still in the skybox patted them on the shoulders in congratulations, “one more dance like that and we’re in.”

And their next dance was even better than the first. Dean put Castiel right in the middle of the paso doble, having him move between Dean and Tessa in a variation of the paso as a love triangle metaphor that had been so well-exploited in past seasons’ trio dances. This time, instead of the two men fighting over the woman, Dean choreographed it so that it looked like he and Tessa were fighting over Castiel. Dean knew it was just a dance (and a dance he had choreographed after all), but it still made his heart beat twice as fast and his face heat up when Castiel “chose” him at the end. 

Again, Pam, Balthazar and Cassie had praised Castiel’s dancing skill and Dean’s choreography, but Dean thought he might be dreaming when Crowley’s comments—“I have to admit,” he said, surprise on his face, “that wasn’t half bad”—were followed by him raising his 10 paddle.


	12. Chapter 12

Of all the strange things he’d imagined having to do for this barely held-together three ring circus of a TV show—and one of those things had involved wearing last season’s clown costumes—Castiel never thought the producers would pay to send him and Dean down to the U.S.S. Midway. The retired World War II-era aircraft carrier was docked in San Diego and had been repurposed as a maritime museum, replete with exhibits inside the ship and restored military planes on the flight deck. And since their music was _[Take My Breath Away](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bx51eegLTY8)_ , the love theme from _Top Gun_ , the producers probably wanted Dean and Castiel to reenact scenes from the movie on the flight deck. Castiel shuddered at the thought.

It wasn’t as if he had no interest in visiting the aircraft carrier—since coming to L.A. to compete on _Ballroom Superstars_ , he’d promised himself he would drive down to see it. But when he imagined their little field trip—strolling around the ship, spending time with Dean, showing Dean what his life used to look like, slipping his hand into Dean’s—well, he could do without the cameras documenting the whole experience. Especially since he was more and more sure everyday that he wanted Dean as more than just a dance partner.

After the Switch Up, Dean’s uninvited trips to Castiel’s condo had become infrequent at best, but really, mostly non-existent. Castiel couldn’t believe that Dean barging into his condo, taking over his kitchen, and forcing him to indulge in pop culture, would be something he would miss. But he did miss it—he missed _Dean_.

They had a three hour drive down to San Diego just to themselves, that could perhaps be some quality non-work time with Dean that he’d been missing. But if Dean’s attitude that morning was anything to go by, Castiel might be getting his hopes up.

The plan had been to meet at Dean’s house and take his Impala—which Dean lovingly called “Baby” for some reason Castiel couldn’t quite figure out—down to San Diego. However, when Castiel arrived, the hood of the Impala was open, and Dean was cursing at something, leaning over the engine, legs spread in a way that sent a shock of electricity up Castiel’s spine. He stood up, covered up to his elbows in an unidentifiable black goo but his heather grey t-shirt and jeans were surprisingly unblemished.

“Dammit,” Dean said, closing the hood forcefully before apologizing to his car, “we can’t go today. Baby’s rattling something fierce and I don’t want to take her out of town like this.”

Castiel looked at him, puzzled. “I have a car,” he offered, “We can take my car.”

Dean looked around Castiel to glare disdainfully at his car. “That is not a car, man.”

Castiel huffed in annoyance, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know what your problem is with my car. It’s a classic. Just like yours.” Castiel shrugged, gesturing at the Impala, and Dean gaped at him like he had just claimed that the world was flat.

“Wha- No way,” Dean spluttered, “No _fucking_ way. My car is _classic_. Yours is just _old_. And it probably barely runs. I’m _not_ risking my neck in that piece of shit—”

Castiel narrowed his eyes and Dean shut his mouth. “My car is just as good as yours Dean Winchester,” he said walking into Dean’s space, “and is currently driveable, unlike yours.”

Castiel glared at Dean, and Dean looked at the ground, a little sheepish. Dean grumbled an apology before walking over to his garden hose to rinse the grime off his hands and arms. 

“Fine,” he said blushing, still looking away from Castiel, “but I still say the ‘67 Impala and ‘78 Continental _barely_ belong on the same sentence, and definitely not in the same category of—”

“Just get in the car, Dean.” Castiel threw Dean a towel that had been resting on the roof of the Impala, hitting him squarely in the face. Dean grumbled as he dried off, but grabbed his keys, wallet and sunglasses from where they had been resting on the patio, and climbed into the passenger seat of Castiel’s car with a forlorn look at the Impala.

Dean didn’t say much as they got started on their trip, preferring to stare wistfully out the window, or move around on the vinyl seat like he was uncomfortable. Castiel rolled his eyes at Dean’s childish behavior and turned on the radio once they got on the I-5 going south. He flipped to his favorite station just at the DJ finished the radio identification and the first bars of _[Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBQVrCflZ_E)_ faded in.

Dean immediately protested, making a play for the radio dial. Castiel batted his hand away without a sideways glance, and turned the song up louder.

“Cas, I can _not_ listen to this crap,” Dean pleaded and Castiel turned the volume back down to its starting level.

“You told me 'driver picks the music' and made me listen to two hours of Metallica last week and I said nothing,” he said pointedly, “So, we're going to listen to Starship and you're going to _deal_ with it.” Castiel turned the volume back up and started singing along as Dean dragged his hands over his face.

“ _Let ‘em say we’re crazy_ ,” Castiel sung, “ _What do they know?”_ He nudged Dean to sing along and Dean shook his head violently.

“No man, _no way_ ,” he said firmly, “I draw the line and _singing along_ to anything by Starship, Jefferson or otherwise.”

Castiel glared at him out of the corner of his eye, and Dean groaned. “ _Let the world around us just fall apart_ ,” Dean sung under his breath through gritted teeth.

Castiel beamed at him, before belting the chorus. Castiel went for the high notes towards the end, and saw Dean shake his head, smiling like he couldn’t believe what was happening. They both sung the final chorus, glancing at each other and smirking, even as Dean was slouching so that passing cars couldn’t see him.

“You can _never_ tell Sam about this,” Dean said as the song finished. Castiel just smiled and Dean’s face fell. “I mean it, Cas—Sam can’t know.”

Castiel hummed as the next song started, and Dean shook Castiel arm. “Cas? Promise me.”

“I’ll think about it, Dean,” Castiel said with a grin.

—

Castiel drove like an old lady, but they made good time on their trip, pulling into the parking lot next to the studio’s van just as Ruby was returning with a curator. 

Castiel stepped out of the car and put on his aviators, and Dean only slightly tripped over his own feet at the sight. Castiel was wearing khaki shorts, topsiders and a blue gingham button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It was the kind of outfit that would make anyone else either look like a frat boy or someone’s uncool dad, but it worked for Castiel, showing off his muscled forearms and calves. The cool breeze and mid-morning sun were also working for Castiel, giving him a soft halo around his wind-tousled hair that had Dean wishing they were anywhere but out in public.

If Dean hadn’t been so grumpy about the Impala or still a little groggy from sleep early that morning, the sight of Castiel in his casual clothes would’ve had Dean trying to convince Castiel to stay in with him instead of driving almost three hours to see a boat. Granted, it was a big boat—big enough to put planes on—but it was still just a boat.

Dean put on his own sunglasses, real Ray-Ban Wayfarers he’d splurged on, and reluctantly joined Castiel by Ruby and the curator. The curator explained the exhibits and where they could and couldn’t bring the cameras, but Dean tuned her out. Castiel was looking at one of the museum’s brochures, his long slender fingers turning the pages in slow elegant arcs, and Dean was transfixed by their movement.

He heard a cough and looked up quickly as Ruby smirked at him. The curator handed the whole group of them off to a tour guide, and they were shuffled toward the aircraft carrier.

Castiel was, to no one’s surprise, very fascinated by the ship and the exhibits. They probably could have gotten through the tour much faster, if Castiel didn’t stop the tour guide to ask a million questions, and in a couple cases, correct the tour guide’s facts.

For most of the tour, Dean tried to relax and enjoy himself—they were on a paid vacation after all. But his mind kept wandering back to the previous night’s results. Donna and Victor, surprise front-runners who’d topped the leaderboard the past two weeks, were eliminated instead of Meg and Michael, whose cracks in their relationship were becoming more and more evident on the dancefloor.

Dean couldn’t believe that he and Castiel had made it through to the semifinals, but last night’s elimination proved, yet again, that viewer votes were key. He hoped that he and Castiel had scrounged up enough viewer support with their non-traditional fox trot and perfectly-danced paso doble to make the final three. Getting the attention of the voting public was the only way they were going to make it to the second night of competition, and he hated knowing that his fate was out his hands. 

After practically crawling through the bowels of the aircraft carrier, the guide led them up to the flight deck to see the planes, Castiel touching everything or fiddled with something the whole way up. Once they were out in the open again, the tour guide backed off and let Dean and Castiel explore, while the cameras followed at little bit closer than Dean would have liked.

“So did you fly any of these?” Dean asked trying for casual, as he felt the cord of the lapel mic stick to his back, one of the cameras intently pointed at his face.

“Um,” Castiel said, looking around at the twenty-nine planes—exactly twenty-nine according to the tour guide—and hesitated. Dean watched Castiel give an assessing look at the planes nearest to them before looking down at his brochure and picking one out a few hundred feet away. 

“No, but that one—” Castiel pointed to the F/A-18 Hornet painted with a desert camo pattern, “is similar to the Growler I flew a bit … at the end,” he trailed off.

“Yeah?” Dean gave an appraising look to the plane and guided Castiel toward it.

“The one I flew was modified for electronic warfare,” Castiel said, as if that meant anything to Dean, “but otherwise—the body, the flight capabilities, all that—are pretty much the same.”

They stepped up to the plane, walking underneath the wing to see the placard placed on the front wheel. Castiel placed a hand on the fuselage fondly as if he was saying hello to an easily-spooked giant metal animal. A sad look passed over his face, and Dean’s heart sank. There was so much regret and nostalgia wrapped up in Castiel’s physical conversation with the plane, Dean had to pull Castiel’s mind away from whatever path it had wandered down.

“So, do you think we can take a look at the cockpit?” Dean asked and Castiel grinned, shrugging. Dean waved to the tour guide, and he quickly joined them at the plane. After a lengthy negotiation between Ruby and the tour guide, and then Ruby and the curator on a walkie talkie, they were allowed to look at the controls, but could for no reason enter the cockpit. 

A riser was brought over to them and they were lifted up high enough to see inside. Dean cupped his hands to fight off the glare of the windshield, peering at the dials and buttons and screens and sensors.

“Whoa man, this is fucking complicated. You know what all these buttons do?” Dean asked, looking up from the cockpit to turn to Castiel.

“Of course I do, Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean could see Castiel’s eyebrows raise in obvious incredulity, “I was a pilot for almost ten years. Rachel said I was a natural, though, and Anna claimed she could never remember what all the switches did, but I knew she was lying.”

A faraway smile crossed Castiel’s face, and Dean didn’t ask who Rachel and Anna were. Castiel never talked about his Navy buddies, and Dean felt like he’d finally been let into the last hidden part of Castiel’s life. He didn’t want to ruin the moment with prying.

“So, what does that button do?” Dean asking instead, pointing at the button nearest to him Castiel made a considering nose and leaned close enough that Dean could get a whiff of Castiel’s deodorant. Castiel, unlike Dean, seemed completely unaffected by the heat of the mid-day sun, or their trek through ant-sized stuffy corridors. Dean moved away from Castiel slightly, afraid that Castiel would be put off by Dean’s sweat funk. 

“Airbag,” Castiel replied nonchalantly and Dean looked inside again. 

“Really?” Dean asked, “there’s a button for that?” The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched upward and Dean scoffed. “You just made something up,” Dean said, “you little shit.”

Castiel shrugged. “Dean, there is a lot going on in this cockpit and I can’t even see what you’re pointing at. And if you’re really pointing at what I _think_ you’re pointing at—that’s not even a button.”

“What is it then asshole?” 

“It’s an indicator light,” Castiel explained, before adding, “dumbass.”

Castiel smiled, wide and bright, and Dean couldn’t help but get caught up in Castiel’s playful mood.

“Oh yeah?” Dean countered, “Well as soon as we get off this riser, I’m pushing you into the ocean.”

Castiel’s face turned white. “Don’t you dare, Dean.”

Dean advanced on Castiel, backing him into the corner of the railing on the riser. He put his arms on either side of Castiel, keeping Castiel from escaping with a serious look. “What’re you gonna do to stop me?”

Castiel chewed on his lip, and Dean had to fight to keep a smile off his face. “Fine, I won’t tell Sam about—” Castiel paused before leaning around Dean and raising his voice, “YOU SINGING ALONG TO STARSH—”

Dean got a hand over Castiel’s mouth before he could finish shouting to everyone on the flight deck. Castiel squirmed out of Dean’s hold, grinning madly, and gasped in a lungful of air before trying to shout again. In a flash, Dean imagined covering Castiel’s mouth with his own as a means of shutting Castiel up, but then Castiel licked his hand and all hell broke loose. 

Eventually the tour guide had enough of their rough housing and brought them down. His stern look made Dean almost feel sorry, but the bright look in Castiel’s eyes and dopey grin on his face made it all worth it.

Ruby grabbed them to do some pre-planned shots and film interviews, all the while giving Dean a smarmy knowing look. High off their horsing around, Castiel leaned over to whisper a joke about the tour guide, a goat, and blowjobs that made zero sense. 

Dean didn’t know if he’d ever laughed harder in his entire life.


	13. Chapter 13

The rumba was hardly the only dance with a quick-quick-slow rhythm, but Castiel hadn’t felt time stop and the world disappear in the long space of the slows in any other dance all season. Cocooned in soft light and swathed in music, holding Dean and being held by Dean, dancing in slow arcs and staring into each other’s eyes, it was as if nothing existed but the two of them. 

He heard _take my breath away_ , and he was breathless. A singer crooned _if only for today, I am unafraid_ , and Castiel felt _unafraid_. She painted a picture of a whirlwind romance, and Castiel knew her excitement and longing down to his bones. He’d concocted hundreds of reasons why he shouldn’t give in to what he felt—about dancing, about _Dean_ —and all of those reasons disappeared as she sung and he danced.

Castiel lead Dean through the steps, guiding Dean like _Castiel_ was the professional dancer. And Dean followed—both supple and pliant in Castiel’s arms, while still executing the gymnastic styling characteristic of the rumba with elegant strength. The muscles of Dean’s core contracted and flexed and he lifted and spun Dean in wide arc, the toes of Dean’s shoes dragging softly over the wood parquet floor. 

But when Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s bare chest, revealed by the open, gauzy button-down of Dean’s costume, he felt the softness of Dean’s skin and the quick flutter of Dean’s heartbeat. He wanted to trace his thumb over the curve of Dean’s pectoral, across the pink nipple peeking through the transparent fabric of Dean’s shirt.

Dean placed his hand over Castiel’s, a silent reassurance only meant for the two of them, woven into their very public dance. Castiel’s heart raced the moment their hands touched. An intoxicating electric shock zinging through him, making him confident and strong in ways he’d never known before.

He met Dean’s eyes and a memory flashed through his mind—Dean in the studio, adamantly explaining that the rumba is “The Dance of Love,” showing Castiel other couples dancing in soft clothes and soft light, and telling Castiel to act like he was in love.

But Castiel hadn’t have much of a frame of reference for _love_ then. Castiel had never been in love. He’d had crushes and felt attraction from afar, but he’d never been with anyone long enough to let a deep, meaningful love grow between them. And that made perfect sense since he’d never _been_ with anyone at all.

He wasn’t sure he could make that claim anymore. When he and Dean moved in the rumba, they moved together as a team—but he could also say the same about the Viennese Waltz and the fox trot. What was special about the rumba, and especially the rumba with Dean, was the push and pull of the steps forcing them apart and snapping them back together. It might seem combative when described in those terms, but for Castiel, it felt a lot like their partnership. It felt like he and Dean were reaching for the same goal, challenging each other to rise higher and higher, reaching for whatever they were looking for and making each other better in the process.

And he guessed that was a lot like love: having faith in another person, helping them achieve their goals, feeling challenged and stimulated but wanting to return to that person day after day, night after night. Falling into someone’s arms and feeling safe, secure in the knowledge that they will be there to catch you every time. Opening up to another person and feeling protected and cared for, rather than ridiculed and derided. Reaching out for someone and them reaching back. Struggling through difficult times together and smiling, laughing though successes. 

Being with Dean. 

The rumba had to end, just like any dance, just like the show, just like all things in life, and Castiel was transported back to the real world. Slowly, the ballroom reformed around him. First came the smell of sweat and hairspray covering him and Dean, and the creak of his leather shoes. Then the sound of the audience returned, a quiet rumble becoming a deafening roar, as if someone plugged them into an amplifier and slowly turned up the volume knob. Finally, the bright stage lights illuminated the space, chasing away the soft blue spotlight and the dream world of the dance. 

He blinked and the world became solid again. Dean was smiling and him, and Castiel smiled back. Whatever happened next, they could handle it. Together.

Castiel slipped his hand into Dean’s and walked to the judge’s table, unafraid.

—

Dean sat in his Baby in the driveway and he still couldn’t believe how the night had gone. He and Castiel, they’d done it. They were in the finals.

Dean didn’t know if he’d ever forget Castiel’s face when the results were announced—eyes wide and jaw slack like he couldn’t process what just happened. And, to be fair, Dean had problems processing information at that moment, too.

Meg and Michael were out and Dean and Castiel were going to the finals. Holy _shit._

The other couples and Dick and Jody had moved to the center of the floor to say goodbye to Meg and Michael, but Dean was rooted to his spot on the stage. 

“Dean,” Castiel said as he shook Dean, his brain finally catching up. “what just happened?”

“We did it, buddy,” Dean said, grinning, and a smile started to spread across Castiel’s face. Castiel hugged Dean tight as Dean swore softly, “Son of a _bitch_.”

Castiel pulled back, his hands still resting on Dean’s arms, and giggled—Dean couldn’t believe he actually _giggled_. And he looked so ridiculous: his nose was scrunched up oddly, his makeup was running and Dean could probably draw a detailed map of Castiel’s mouth, from his gums to all of his fillings. But Dean was so gone on the guy, he would happily look at the Castiel’s stupid-looking smiling face every day for the rest of his life if it meant making him that happy again.

Dean didn’t want to dance around it anymore, or pretend he didn’t feel what he felt for Castiel. Now, he just had to convince Castiel to stick around once the finals and summer tour were over.

While in wardrobe, Dean started to formulate a plan. He’d made lasagne that morning to pop in the oven when he got home, and there was more than enough for two. He also still had some splits of sparkling wine left over from New Year’s in the back of his fridge that would be (hopefully) still be good to drink. 

“Hey Cas,” Dean said as Castiel headed toward his car, “Let’s celebrate tonight. You wanna come over and eat a real meal?”

“That sounds very nice, Dean.” Castiel beamed and Dean felt his face heat up.

“Um, just give me about a fifteen minute head start,” he said, “My place is kind of a mess right now.”

Then, Castiel’d nodded in agreement and Dean’d raced home, where he was now trying to get up the courage to go inside and follow through on his plan.

Dean walked in and looked around his living room; it was pretty much as neat and clean as it ever was, but he wanted tonight to be special for Castiel. He pulled out his record collection, housed in several waterproof, bugproof, fireproof cases in a built-in cabinet. He looked for something romantic, but not “let’s get it on,” so he eliminated Led Zeppelin II. _[Whole Lotta Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0utAHY3xo4)_ and _[The Lemon Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHXzZePkL8o)_ might be sexy as hell, but he doubted they’d be good background music for a conversation about his feelings.

He passed over the rest of Zeppelin’s catalogue, as well as Dylan, The Who and Jimi Hendrix. He moved to the next box, briefly considering Foreigner, but put it aside as well into a pile with Kansas and Boston. He didn’t even open the next box—the entire catalogues of both Rush and Metallica—and was about to give up on finding anything when he saw one more box in the back of his cabinet. 

This one was dusty from disuse, but Dean looked at it fondly. He put all the other boxes back in the cabinet and pulled this one over to his record player. He wiped off the box before taking the dust cover off his record player—there was no way he was getting all that grime anywhere near the turntable—and opened the box. The first album was a 1950’s recording of Swan Lake, a little rough around the edges from time, but otherwise in impeccable condition. Dean browsed through a few more recordings of ballet music that followed it, but rejected all of it. He liked the music—another fact Sam _never_ had to know—but it wasn’t quite what he was looking for.

After the ballet music came jazz, and Dean’s face lit up. He pulled out _Ella Fitzgerald Sings the George and Ira Gershwin Songbook_ and put on the first album. 

Music taken care of, he fiddled with the dimmer switch for the living and dining rooms until he was happy with the light level and went to the kitchen to start dinner. He’d just transferred the lasagne from the fridge to the oven when Castiel rang the doorbell, sixteen minutes exactly after Dean got home.

Dean opened the door to let Castiel in, and Castiel held up a bottle of real French champagne. “Hannah said that it’s customary to bring wine when invited to dinner and since we’re celebrating…”

Dean held up the split of Korbel he was about to open when Castiel arrived and smiled. “My thoughts exactly,” Dean said, “though I’m sure whatever you brought is _way_ better than _this_ crap.”

Castiel shrugged and handed him the bottle. Dean invited him in and Castiel followed Dean through the living room to the kitchen, smiling as they passed Ella singing _[How Long Has This Been Going On](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMe5rycoGC0)_ on the record player.

“I like this song very much,” Castiel said, smiling mischievously, “but no Metallica tonight?”

Dean chuckled and poured Castiel a flute of champagne. “This seemed more fitting.” 

“Congratulations, Dean,” Castiel said as he lifted his glass in a toast.

“Couldn’t’ve done it without you, buddy.” Dean lifted his own glass and clinked Castiel’s before taking a sip.

—

As they ate, they talked about everything and nothing. Castiel listened closely to Dean passionately discuss his favorite movies—a few of which Castiel had even seen, like _An American in Paris_ and _Singin’ in the Rain_. Castiel suspected that Dean’s admiration for Gene Kelly extended beyond his dancing, but Castiel kept his suspicions to himself. Instead, he let Dean describe his favorite scenes in depth and act out the ones Castiel wasn’t familiar with.

After mentioning Rachel and Anna at the U.S.S. Midway, Castiel’d felt a little more comfortable sharing a few stories about his time in the Navy, a topic he hadn’t broached with anyone in long time. He’d kept that part of his life so bottled up that it was nice to finally let some of it out, and especially to such a rapt audience.

“... and then I explained how the roadrunner and coyote are a metaphor for humanity chasing the divine!” Castiel laughed, and Dean laughed with him. Dean still had a mouthful of food, but instead of finding it gross, Castiel thought it was endearing. “And of course, Hester was brought up in this _very_ religious household, and was not amused by that at all and Inias tried to help ...”

“And I’m sure your _very_ detailed explanation didn’t help.”

“No, not at all,” Castiel said, shaking his head head. “In fact, I think that made it worse.”

Dean let out a bark of laughter and Castiel wiped away a few tears. They looked at each other, and affection swelled in Castiel’s chest. Dean was such a sweet, smart, and capable man, and Castiel hoped there were many dinners like this in their future.

“So,” Dean said, breaking eye contact and Castiel spotted a hint of a blush, “if you’re done, I can take your plate?”

Castiel nodded and handed his plate to Dean, their fingers brushing in the handoff. Castiel could still feel Dean’s touch even after he had gone to the kitchen, and by the way Dean jolted when they touched, Castiel thought (and hoped) he probably felt the same way.

Dean shouted from the kitchen that Castiel should meet him in the living room once he was done cleaning up, so Castiel picked up both of their glasses and migrated them to the coffee table. As he placed their glasses on the table (on coasters of course), he noticed an open box of albums tucked into the corner next to the record player. He moved across the room to the box and sat on the hardwood floor so he could get a better look at the box’s content. 

He could hear Dean finish cleaning the kitchen and start the dishwasher as he started flipping through the collection, stopping to pull out an album or two that he recognized. He’d just pulled out a Nat King Cole forty-five single when he felt Dean sit down beside him. Castiel turned it so Dean could see what he was looking at and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I inherited it,” Dean explained, “My mother loved to dance to it. The whole box was hers a long time ago.”

Dean touched the edges of a few of the albums reverently. “Sam told you my mom danced ballet. She was so great, Cas—” Dean looked up and took a steadying breath. “She came home to Lawrence and taught ballet after she hurt her knee, and these were all the albums she kept in her studio.”

Castiel’s heart broke at Dean’s admission. He placed his hand on Dean’s knee and Dean’s eyes darted from the records to Castiel’s hand to Castiel’s face. Castiel rubbed his knee in what he hoped was a comforting gesture and Dean relaxed a little, though Castiel could still see his hands and arms flex nervously.

Dean gently took the record from Castiel and stood to put it on the turntable, dislodging Castiel hand as he stood up. He stared intently at the record player as he carefully and precisely removed the Ella Fitzgerald album and placed it back in its sleeve. He then snapped a [yellow plastic 45 rpm adapter](http://images.mentalfloss.com/sites/default/files/45adapter_5.jpg) in the Nat King Cole single and set it on the platter before slowly positioning the tonearm at the beginning of the song. 

_[When I Fall in Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y39N72hN7iQ)_ began to play, and Dean tapped his foot nervously while staring at the spinning record. He sighed, and it looked to Castiel like he had come to some sort of decision, before reaching out a hand to Castiel. Castiel slipped his hand into Dean’s and let Dean help him off the floor. 

As soon as he was standing, Castiel felt one of Dean’s hands snake around to rest on his lower back while the other clasped his right hand in a loose hold. Dean stared at their clasped hands or somewhere over Castiel’s shoulder as they danced until Castiel whispered, “Dean.”

Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s and Castiel could tell he was terrified. He smiled reassuringly at Dean, and the tension in Dean’s vanished. Dean sighed and shook his head, grinning, before resting his head lightly on Castiel’s shoulder.

Any judge would say their frame was so loose as to be non-existent and their postures were sloppy, but Castiel would give the dance a perfect ten. Their dance wasn’t much more than swaying, but Castiel’d never been so thrilled to dance with Dean. With Dean’s chest pressed close to his, Castiel could feel the slow expansions and contractions of Dean’s chest. And coupled with the soft exhales of Dean’s breath and an occasional brush of Dean’s nose on his neck, Castiel felt like he was in heaven. 

The song was over too quickly, and Dean had to break away to keep the needle of the record player from scratching over the label. He turned back to Castiel and Castiel reached for him, letting his feelings guide him rather than trying to rationalize his way to the best course of action. 

One hand on Dean’s jaw and the other wrapped around Dean’s waist, Castiel pulled Dean back to him, his lips only slightly trembling as they touched Dean’s. He felt Dean stiffen in shock and he tried to let Dean go, but then Dean was kissing him back. 

Much like their dance, it wasn’t very technically proficient, or even that complicated, but it set pleasure shooting through his whole body, pooling wherever Dean touched him—Dean’s mouth on his, Dean’s hands running through his hair, Dean’s chest and pelvis pressed against his…

It was everything Castiel had ever dreamed of for a first kiss.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean’s brain came to a halt as soon as Castiel’s lips met his. For an instant, he couldn’t believe that _Castiel_ —nerdy, likely-virgin, ex-fighter pilot and eternal crankypants—was kissing _him_. But then all rational thought was gone, and all he needed was to tangle his fingers in Castiel’s hair, to pull him closer and never let him go.

He pulled away from Castiel for a moment to catch his breath. Castiel looked incredibly beautiful, eyes hooded and mouth swollen, and Dean’s brain jarred back to life.

He pushed Castiel away and felt a pang as he saw the hurt in Castiel’s eyes. “Wait, stop. This isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

Castiel blinked, confused. “I thought you wanted this. You kissed me back.”

“No—I mean, yes I did.” Dean shook his head. “But this can’t happen—not now.”

Castiel’s brows furrowed and his lips made a stern line. “I’m confused. You invited me over, you cooked me dinner, you invited me to dance…” He paused and some kind of realization washed over his face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll just go.”

Castiel turned around and took a step toward the front door, but Dean caught him by the crook of the elbow. “Wait, please,” Dean said breathlessly. Dean released him, and Castiel didn’t try to take another step away, but he didn’t turn to look at Dean either. Dean sucked in a lung of fortifying air before speaking again. “I like you, Cas, and I want to be with you. But, the timing … it just won’t work. And I wanted you to come over so I could try to explain that to you.”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder before looking back at the door. Dean could see Castiel ball his hands up into fists before opening them, spreading his fingers wide. “No, I get it, Dean. You don’t have to try to spare my feelings—” Dean watched Castiel’s back rise as Castiel took in a shaky breath, “I’m sorry I misread … this.”

Castiel started walking again, but Dean was faster. Dean bodily blocked the door and Castiel crossed his arms in annoyance. 

Dean dropped his head in his hands and groaned. “I’ve seen these things—” he gestured sharply between them, “between celebs and pros burn hot during the season but completely fizzle out once the show is over.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and tried to grab the door handle behind Dean. “Please, Cas,” Dean pleaded, “I don’t want that. And when the show is done, I’m going on tour for the summer, so it’s not a great time to start anything. If you could just _wait_ —”

“Dean I’m—I’m tired of waiting,” Castiel said angrily, “I’ve waited my whole life for _the right time_ to do things, and I can’t do it anymore.”

Dean struggled for the right thing to say. His mind was in a million places at once as he tried to put words together that would keep Castiel from leaving, while flickers of their kiss kept flashing behind his eyelids. Castiel’s lifelong avoidance of romantic relationships hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Castiel had put his faith in Dean and his heart in Dean’s hands, and the last thing Dean wanted to do was mess that up. But if they started this now, who knows where they’d be in just a week. What if they didn’t win? What if _Dean_ couldn’t win?

“I just want to give _us_ a fightin’ chance,” Dean argued, “You say you don’t want to wait; I’m not gonna cancel my tour appearance so _you_ don’t have to wait.” The words sounded so harsh coming out of Dean’s mouth and Dean winced. 

“I don’t want you to do that!” Castiel scoffed. “It’s a different kind of waiting. It’s waiting with the knowledge you’ll come back to me, instead of waiting for something that might never come.”

Castiel sighed and, maybe figuring he wasn’t going to be able to storm out, turned toward the couch. He sat down heavily on one of the cushions and Dean dropped on to the couch next to him. 

“I just—” Castiel started, staring at something across the room, “I denied myself what I wanted for most of my life, and I don’t want to see you doing the same thing.” He looked at Dean, and Dean felt pinned to the couch. Was he doing the same thing? Was he denying himself?

Dean reached over to Castiel, tentatively taking his hand. “I just don’t want to lose you, Cas. I only know how to go fast—I don’t know how to do a real relationship. I’ve never really been in a serious thing before.”

Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand and laughed. “Neither have I.”

Dean smiled wanly and dropped Castiel’s hand. “Can I still have some time?” he asked, “Maybe just until after the show is done and we can figure this out?”

Castiel pursed his lips in a frown. “You can’t put this off forever—I won’t wait forever.” He looked at Dean so seriously that Dean knew he meant it. And Castiel had waited long enough—Dean knew that. 

“I know, I know.”

Minutes that felt like hours ticked by in silence. Dean didn’t know what to say now, how to reassure Castiel, how to reassure himself. 

“So now what?” Castiel asked, breaking the silence.

“Well,” Dean said, “I have a freestyle to choreograph. And every year people expect something bigger and better than all the years before—both a perfectly blended mix of styles and a flawless spectacle.” Dean sighed, “And the judges picked your first jive to dance again, so we have to get that up to snuff.”

“Yes we do have that,” Castiel said, grimacing. They’d done pretty well on their dance-off jive, but that first dance had been such a train wreck. They’d come so far, but would going back to their week one dance dredge up all the bad feelings from that time? Or undo everything they’d worked on together?

“Then what?” Castiel asked. Dean knew he meant what to ask what came after dancing their jive, but to Dean it sounded like he was wondering what would happen if they couldn’t dance their jive right again. Or if their relationship would be irrevocably damaged because of it. Or if Castiel would still want him if he failed.

“Then,” Dean said after reorganizing his thoughts, “fingers crossed, we dance a twenty-four hour fusion on Tuesday night for the Mirrorball.” Dean shrugged and tried not to let the anxiety overwhelm him as it sunk like a stone in his gut.

“Do you think we have a shot?”

Dean shrugged. “At this point, who knows?” Dean thought of Donna and Victor, whose elimination had caught everyone off guard, and of the three other celebrities still left in the race. All three had also received multiple perfect 40s for their dances, while Dean and Castiel just had the one. Benny and Kevin also had Lisa and Jo as partners. Lisa had won the very first Mirrorball trophy (and then gone on to win two more) and Jo had two of her own prominently displayed in her living room (though mostly to mock Dean). 

And then there was Krissy. She’d topped the leaderboard week after week since the beginning of the season and had never even been in jeopardy. She was the one to beat, and Dean wondered if he and Castiel had a shot at overcoming the sense of inevitability that had followed Krissy and Aaron since their first dance.

Castiel’s next question was soft and timid, just loud enough to stir Dean from his thoughts. “And … after?”

Dean didn’t think he’d ever heard Castiel so unsure of what he was asking. But Dean was just as unsure. He knew what he wanted— _who_ he wanted—but part of Dean still couldn’t help but worry. The two of them had become close friends over the three months they’d worked together, and the thought of losing Castiel made Dean want to reach out and grab Castiel and never let go. Or at least, it would have made him want to hold Castiel close, if he wasn’t terrified that jumping into something too soon would doom them from the start. But if he waited too long, he’d lose Castiel for sure, which spent him spiraling back to needing to hold on to Castiel.

Dean’s head swum with indecision and doubt. He only realized he was panicking when he felt Castiel pry open his clenched fist and thread his fingers with Dean’s. Dean looked at him, and Castiel gently placed his other hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“After,” Dean started, trying to keep the butterflies from flying out of his stomach, “we’ll talk— _really_ talk.”

Castiel nodded and squeezed Dean’s hand. “So for now,” he said, smiling, “Let’s have fun and win this son of a bitch.”

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, Cas.”

—

Castiel sat in his car in the garage under his building and slammed his hands against his steering wheel, cursing. _Stupid Dean._

 _And I was stupid, too,_ Castiel thought, _for thinking anything had changed between us_.

Castiel had thought rehearsals had been going pretty well leading up to the finals despite any occasional lingering awkwardness from their kiss.

Their problematic first week jive improved with every practice, and Castiel was surprised that dance steps that had felt unnatural in the beginning now came to him like second nature. When he and Dean danced side-by-side, even Dean admitted that he couldn’t see much of a difference between them. Dean’s praise filled Castiel with a joy that he tapped into when he danced. It overflowed out of him, as he beamed at Dean and at the imaginary audience of their dance studio. 

The last time they’d danced this particular jive, Castiel had felt out of sync with Dean, and not just because he wasn’t on the beat of the music. He’d been mad at Dean for ignoring him and that anger and frustration had made it impossible to connect with Dean in the dance. Now, buoyed by the knowledge that what he felt for Dean was reciprocated, even if Dean didn’t know what to do with those feelings, Castiel reached for Dean with abandon, confident that Dean would be there waiting for him.

And when Dean caught Castiel’s hand, a little smile appeared on Dean’s face.

Castiel hadn’t been so lucky when it’d come time to prepare for their freestyle. On those days, Dean vacillated between a giddy schoolboy with a crush and a stern, distant teacher, and he did little to hide it. 

Dean had decided that they would play to Castiel’s strengths, focusing on ballroom dances and throwing in non-ballroom elements that would give Castiel a chance to stand out. Unfortunately, while Dean knew the general parts he wanted in the dance, he hit a wall when it was time to choreograph it. Though Dean’s go-to reaction to frustration was to walk it off, he was also very skilled at poking at something passive aggressively until it boiled over.

Like today.

Castiel rested his head on the cool leather of his steering wheel as Dean’s words rang in his ears. _Dammit Cas! You can’t keep dancin’ like this. If I could do it alone, I would._

The blood pounding in Castiel’s ears drowned out anything else Dean’d had to say. He might love Dean—and he doesn’t pretend otherwise, unlike _some people_ —but he refused to be Dean’s punching bag. 

Castiel doubted that Dean had meant to hurt him, but something about what he said just made Castiel want to walk out the door of the studio and drive home without another word. 

And so he did. And now he was home, still fuming as he got out of his car.

He stalked up to his condo and angrily threw his bag on the floor in the entryway. He pulled out a box of macaroni and cheese and dropped it in a pot of water, not caring when dry noodles missed the pot. 

He stared at the pot with contempt, waiting for the water for his mediocre dinner to boil. One of the benefits of having Dean in his life was delicious home-cooked meals, and even Kraft’s best paled in comparison. But even homemade meals that would make Food Network’s stars proud weren’t worth putting up with Dean when he was in a bad mood.

Castiel had just dropped the powdered cheese into the pot when the doorbell rang. He knew it was Dean, and contemplated not answering the door. He scooped out a portion of his mac and cheese and dropped it in a bowl with a satisfying _plop_. A second ring of the doorbell came, and Castiel pointedly ignored it as he put a spoon in his bowl. Dean could stand outside ringing the doorbell for hours for all he cared. 

Castiel turned off the burner, took his food off, and covered the pot. He was halfway to his couch when Dean became desperate.

“Cas!” Dean shouted through the door and accompanied it by a few heavy knocks. “I saw your car—I know you’re here!”

Castiel rolled his eyes—he’d have a noise complaint soon if he didn’t answer the door or if Dean didn’t get the hint and go. Castiel was wondering who could outlast the other when he heard the soft thud of Dean leaning against the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said, just loud enough that Castiel could barely hear it. “I just—I was wrong, okay? Please let me in and I’ll make it up to you.”

The apology caught Castiel off guard, and he was surprised to find himself unlocking and opening the front door. Dean was still leaning on Castiel’s door when it opened, and almost fell onto Castiel’s foyer face first. 

Dean righted himself and held up two grocery bags. 

“I thought I’d make dinner,” he said, “I had planned to make you something special tonight, but then I—”

“Oh, I already made dinner,” Castiel said, cutting him off. Castiel help up his bowl of mac and cheese and Dean scowled at it. Dean reached to take it from Castiel, but Castiel pulled it out of his reach.

“Cas,” Dean whined, “how many times do I gotta tell you— _that_ ain’t food and it certainly ain’t dinner. Kraft mac and cheese is only to be eaten when it’s the middle of the night or you’re high as balls—” Dean gave the bowl another disparaging look, “or both.”

Dean put his grocery bags on the dining room table and pulled out their contents. “Look, man,” Dean said, “I got ribeyes and _real_ pasta made fresh today and organic asparagus from the farmer’s market because it’s your favorite and that cider you like.”

Dean was still giving Castiel’s food the stink eye, but Castiel could admit that whatever Dean wanted to make them would be infinitely better than his dinner. And Dean was pretty cute when he was talking about food or cooking something that he knew Castiel would like.

Castiel sighed dramatically—he couldn’t let Dean know how easily Castiel was convinced—and said, “Let me put my food in the fridge and then the kitchen’s all yours.”

Castiel heard Dean mutter “might as well just burn it” under his breath, but Castiel let it slide. It was hard to be mad at Dean, even if it was just rekindling a recent anger, knowing that Dean had planned all of this for Castiel. This would be the second time that Dean cooked dinner for Castiel that was more than just a friendly meal between co-workers, and the thought sent Castiel’s heart racing in excitement and anticipation.

Castiel hovered in the kitchen doorway and Dean took over. Castiel watched Dean move effortlessly in his space—countless previous dinners meant Dean knew exactly where everything was located. Dean concentrated on food prep, but not so single-mindedly that he didn’t talk to Castiel the whole time he was cooking.

Dean joked with Castiel like nothing bad had happened that day at all, but Castiel could see the tension in the set of Dean’s shoulders. Dean still felt guilty for the way he treated Castiel, and Castiel figured their special meal between almost-lovers had transformed in Dean’s mind into an atonement dinner. 

Dean had just finished seasoning the steaks when Castiel moved next to him. “Dean,” Castiel started and Dean jumped, unaware that Castiel had gotten so close. “What can I do to help?”

Dean’s face was drawn in pain. Castiel wasn’t sure if it was a response to Castiel’s meager cooking skills, or if it was residual guilt, but Castiel pressed on. “How will I ever learn if you don’t show me what you’re doing?” Castiel reasoned, “And don’t we always do better as a team?”

Dean’s smiled bashfully. Castiel could feel Dean’s nod as Dean dropped his head on Castiel’s shoulder. 

“Well,” Dean said, standing up and grabbing the pasta to give to Castiel, “You boiled pasta once tonight and didn’t ruin it. You wanna learn how to make [Cacio e Pepe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cacio_e_pepe)?”

Castiel smiled in return, and after a few missteps, they worked out a rhythm in the kitchen. Dean led Castiel around the small space, gently guiding him where they needed to go, and Castiel followed his every instruction. Dean reached for a spice or a baking pan, and Castiel put it in his hand. And Castiel had the same confidence—when he asked for a utensil or even a little help, he knew Dean would be there, finding his outstretched hand and guiding him to the next step.

They ate dinner at Castiel’s dining room table, Dean’s feet linked with Castiel’s underneath, and smiled over their shared meal. It probably wasn’t as good as if Dean had done it on his own, but they had made it together. 

Castiel was struck by a revelation so quickly that he physically jostled the table, but Dean’s cries of protest fell on deaf ears. It seemed so obvious that he couldn’t believe it had only come to him at that moment—he knew what their freestyle needed.


	15. Chapter 15

Castiel thought that he would be a nervous wreck on the first night of the finals, and was surprised to find he felt completely calm. Adrenaline coursed through him, but it was less like a wild river of anxiety and more like a gentle stream of energy. He tapped into that energy, storing it up to be used when it came time for them to dance, but otherwise rested in the peaceful place he’d found when he was in the military, they one he’d gone to before all flying missions.

Dean, on the other hand, couldn’t sit still. Whenever the cameras weren’t on them, he paced and bit his fingernails, or sat and jiggled his knee. Castiel wondered if his own calm state frustrated Dean because Dean kept looking at him and scoffing or asking Castiel if he was ready to compete. 

Castiel thought that their situation was made only worse by being the last to go that night. For both of their dances, they would have to wait through the performances of the other three couples, watching their triumphs and their blunders, before getting out there and dancing themselves. 

Castiel didn’t watch the dances that came before theirs, choosing to focus on the _feeling_ of dancing with Dean. A few days ago in practice, he mind had been filled with all the little missteps and failures that had culminated in an out-of-sync nightmare of a first dance. They had only just made it through the routine that day, his trepidations making him cautious when he should have been confident.

After countless mistakes, Castiel had to take a break and refocus. He remembered just dancing just to dance with Dean—the jive before their first dance, the salsa in the club, the nameless, formless swaying in Dean’s home. He tapped into that feeling, and it emboldened him. 

Now, waiting backstage for their package to start, he filled himself with the elation he felt dancing with Dean. He traced through the steps of the jive in his head, imbuing each one with the joy of _knowing_ _Dean_ that hadn’t been there when they’d first danced. 

The music changed and the show returned from the commercial break. Dick Roman introduced them, and it was time.

They walked out onto the stage as their package, longer than usual, played behind them on the giant circular screen. It recapped their (second) first meeting and Castiel wryly shook his head at the staged and tense hellos they gave each other. It then went on to show off their best moments all season, the times they won the audience’s hearts and the times they’d impressed the judges. 

After showing a clip of their perfect paso doble in soft filters and slow motion, the faces of Ellen and Jo appeared on the screen. They were scrunched together on a couch, and Castiel watched Dean smile at the sight—he knew Dean’d done a similar interview for Jo’s package.

Pride showed in Ellen’s eyes as she spoke of watching Dean grow up, and watching Dean grow as a dancer. She held up a picture of Dean and Jo at a competition as teenagers. 

“I think this challenge has been a good one for him,” Ellen explained and Jo nodded in agreement, “He’s had to push himself as a choreographer, and it’s really made his dancing a treat to watch.”

The package showed to a few highlights of Dean’s dancing before cutting to Charlie. “Good luck you two!” she said laughing, “All my employees have to vote for you or they lose their jobs! Just kidding!” 

Castiel balked. He hoped she really was joking.

A grainy video of Sam smiling into a cheap webcam came up next. “Dean has always taken a lot onto himself, and I’m so glad Dean’s found a real partner with Castiel. I also think Dean’s had to ask himself some questions he’d never thought of before, and I think it’s helped him grow as a person. Friendships like these are permanent and real, and I know Dean’s made a friend for life.” 

He winked at the camera conspiratorily and Dean dropped his head in his hands to hide a blush. Castiel was so focused on Dean’s discomfort that he almost missed what came next. 

Hannah first appeared on the screen, and Castiel gasped aloud. She spoke about how he’d inspired her from the first moment they’d met, and how thrilled she’d been to work with him.

“But I think through dancing on this show, he’s discovered something of himself outside of our work,” she said, “and I just hope he realizes it.” 

He fought back tears as Anna’s face next filled the screen. She talked about how she believed in Castiel’s determination and relentless persistence. She held up a picture of a whole group of them—Rachel and Hester standing stiffly to one side, Muriel punching Inias in the arm, Uriel and Raphael with rare smiles on their faces, and Anna with her arm slung over his shoulder.

Castiel’s whole body shook when he saw Nora next. She had given him his life back after the Navy, and he doubted he could ever repay her for everything she’d done for him. Her words were soft and soothing, as she spoke,  “I’ve given a lot of jobs to people who were lost and not quite sure how to take the next step. Many of them never figure it out, but I think Castiel has found the right direction for him, and I couldn’t be happier. We’re all rooting for you!”

Then it was Dean’s turn to speak. The Dean on the screen fidgeted in his seat like he couldn’t quite get comfortable, and Castiel smiled at the familiar mannerisms.

“I came into this season thinking ‘This is _my_ year. This might be my last shot to win it.’ But,” he paused and cleared his throat, “if I _am_ gonna win it this season, I’m so glad it’ll be with Castiel. Buddy, you’ve totally changed my life, and definitely for the better.”

Finally, Castiel’s own face filled up the giant screen. “I've never really thought about what I wanted out of life,” he said, “I've done most things in my life, even things I'm proud of, for other people: for my country, for my family, even for the young gay, lesbian, bisexual and trans service members. I didn't even agree to do this show for me, and for the longest time I just wanted to win for Dean.

“And now, I do want to win, but I want it to be _with_ him, not _for_ him. I want something we’ve made together that I can be proud of. Not to say that I’m not proud of how far we’ve come,” he backpedaled, “dancing with Dean is its own reward.” Castiel watch himself furrow his brows and try to puzzle out the right words. “But I think that while winning the Mirrorball would mean a lot for other people—the people I came here to represent, Dean, his family—it would mean more to me. And it would mean so much because I won it with Dean.”

Dean looked at him in awe as the crowd applauded around them. Castiel found it hard to pay attention to anything else with Dean looking at him like that. 

“Did you mean that?” Dean whispered and Castiel nodded.

Castiel could tell that Dean wanted to say something else, but there was no time. The interview package was over and their competition music began.

As soon as the lights were on them, Castiel was _on_. Castiel flung his letterman’s cardigan off with the flick of a wrist, and a cocky smile to the judge’s table. Dean knew how he felt— _America_ knew how he felt—and he’d never been so confident. 

The jive was a fast dance that required quick, precise footwork, and Castiel danced it better than any other time over the course of the competition. He played to the crowd, grinning and winking, but he reserved his most brilliant smiles for when he turned to face Dean.

Dean had the look of unbridled joy a small child might have getting a new toy at Christmas. It was all wonderment and excitement, and Castiel could see that he was just having _fun_. 

The finished the short dance to a standing crowd, and looked at each other as they tried to catch their breaths. Castiel could see Dean’s elation written plainly on his face; they both knew that neither of them had missed a step.

—

Dean had little time to celebrate their perfect scoring jive before it was time to dance again. They were whisked through wardrobe and makeup, and deposited backstage before Dean could comprehend everything that had happened.

They were dressed in tuxes and tails again, this time both in black, and Castiel absently adjusted his coat while they waited to go out on the dancefloor again. Castiel in a tuxedo always took Dean’s breath away, and he had to drag his mind away from where that train of thought usually led. He had to focus on this dance completely to ensure that their performance was championship-worthy.

Dean had to hand it to Castiel—when he had a good idea, he had a _good_ idea. After cooking dinner together, Castiel had suggested that their freestyle not only show off how well they danced together, but also how well they worked together.

At that idea, Dean’s mind had sprung to [Donald O’Connor and Gene Kelly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9xkKhUj3C9M&feature=youtu.be&t=349)—though, to be fair, his mind was never far from Gene Kelly—and the sort of athletic, vaudevillian routines they were remembered for. Castiel had started out the competition more in shape than any of his other pros, and had only improved his stamina and athleticism. Combined with the knowledge that Castiel had studied tap as a kid, Dean knew he could count on Castiel to pick up any routine with Kelly-esque elements.

He also thought of the foxtrot where they switched lead. While Crowley’d frowned at their non-traditional foxtrot, that sort of creativity was not only welcomed, but highly rewarded in the freestyle. Dean knew he could easily incorporate some creative steps into the ballroom sections he’d already choreographed, throw in a little tap dancing, and they would have an athletic and intricate dance that would impress the judges and the viewers.

All that was left was to perform it. This time, there was no pre-dance interview package to give them a chance to collect themselves before the dance—all the advance warning they got in the freestyle was an announcement of their names. 

The first few bars of music played, and they danced an eight-bar section in hold. Though Castiel excelled in hold, Dean decided to choreograph their routine like it was a broadway number, so they danced most of it side-by-side. It was a risk; it often forced a comparison between the pro and the celeb, and if the celeb wasn’t up to snuff, it was painfully obvious. However, Castiel’d never cowered in front of a challenge, and proved in the tap sections that he had earned his spot in the finals.

Dean included a lift and a flip to show off Castiel’s strength and Dean’s flexibility, even with both of them in tuxedos. Whenever Castiel lifted him even Dean was surprised by how easy he made it look; Castiel never made faces or shook under the weight of a fully-grown man held high above his head. 

To add a little fun, Dean also threw in a few of the sight gags and visual jokes that had made their foxtrot so much fun. With the quick syncopated beat on the snare drum and raunchy slide of the trombone in their music, it was easy to tell a joke or two with an broad expression and a gesture between them.

Dean had agonized over whether or not to include a solo for Castiel at the end. It was often expected for the celebs to be able to handle a solo in the freestyle, but Castiel pointed out that it “contradicted their theme of partnership,” so Dean felt torn about putting one in. In the end, he decided that they both would dance on their own, Castiel first and then Dean, followed by them dancing together in the finale. 

Half a dozen troupe dancers danced around them as they tapped their way to the big finish, their coat tails billowing out behind them as they mirrored each others’ fast steps. They looked at each other through the final steps, coming back together in one last turn, before Castiel dipped Dean in their final pose.

Their faces broke wide in grins of excitement as their chests heaved, trying to pull more air in. Since they were the last dancers (and without fail, the show always ran long), they got shortened judges’ comments. All they got from Balthazar was a meaningful point and “Bravo, gentlemen.” Cassie gave them a standing ovation and praised the difficulty of choreography. Pam got in one last leer and comment on the tailoring of their suits, before saying that she liked the whole look of the routine. 

Throughout the other judges’ critiques, Crowley scowled down at his notes. Dean thought that he’d hated it for sure, and struggled to remember if there was a missed step or a place where one of them faltered. Finally, when it came time for Crowley to say something to them, he just sighed heavily.

“It really pains me to say this,” he said weightily, “but I actually enjoyed it. It almost made me long for an eleven paddle.”

Castiel pushed Dean toward the stage where the results would be announced, but Dean hardly registered the touch. This was the first time Dean could remember that Crowley actually _liked_ one of his dances. An old legend in the ballroom world, Crowley was known for being a stickler for technique, as well as a sardonic killjoy with impossible standards. To meet, and perhaps even exceed, those standards was an impossible dream Dean had stored away years ago.

Dean came back to himself as the lights on the stage darkened and a red spotlight shone on every couple.  

Dick started his long and tortuous process of announcing the results, painfully dragging out every word and pause. He first called Krissy and Aaron safe, to no one’s surprise. Dean was happy for his friend—Aaron had certainly earned his place in the finals—but every couple called safe before them put the finals, and therefore winning, just slightly more out of reach.

Soon, Kevin and Jo were also called safe, and Dean felt himself break out in a cold sweat despite the heat of the stage lights on them. It was down to him and Castiel, and Benny and Lisa, and he honestly had no idea which way things would go. Lisa was a fantastic dancer, and Charlie had mentioned once that Benny and Lisa had a lot of fans who wanted to see them come back, if just to see if their supposed romance was real. Dean had snorted at that; Lisa had a kid and a husband she was very devoted to and Benny had his own wife back in New Orleans. 

Dean started to wonder then if this final result came down to which supposed romance people were more invested in, but before he really follow that train of thought, Castiel grabbed his hand. Dean immediately calmed from the contact, as if Castiel touch could pull out all of his anxiety. He turned to look at Castiel as Dick and Jody continued to draw out the final results. Castiel met his gaze and gave Dean a small smile, just enough to reassure him that Castiel’d still be around, no matter what happened in the next few seconds.

“And the last couple who will dance tomorrow night for the Mirrorball is,” Jody started and Dean’s heart stopped. For an agonizing few seconds, he couldn’t breathe, suspended in an eternal pause in time.

The world crashed back down around him as Dick announced, “Castiel and Dean!”

—

Kevin and Jo high-fived on one side of Castiel, while Aaron whispered praise in Krissy’s ear on the other. Castiel stood between the two celebrating couples and looked down at his hands. He could see his hands, but he wasn’t sure he could feel them. He could also see the band playing behind him and the audience cheering all around him, but no sound reached his ears.

He’d never felt this way before. Usually, when he achieved a goal, he hadn’t felt anything but pride. Now, he didn’t know what to feel. Castiel watched Dean’s back as he Dean whooped and tackled Aaron in a congratulatory hug. 

He turned toward Benny and Lisa. Benny her in a comforting hug, and it broke Castiel’s heart to see it. Castiel had never really quite gotten along with Benny, but that didn’t mean he reveled in the couple’s elimination. He’d loved their Beauty and the Beast-inspired freestyle, and pulled for them to make it all the way to the end. He felt their disappointment as if it were his own, to end the season just inches shy of winning. 

A hand touched Benny’s forearm. Benny nodded his head in gratitude, and Castiel realized it was _his_ hand comforting Benny. Benny patted him on the shoulder, a touch Castiel barely felt, before turning back to Lisa and the other couples.

Distantly, he registered Dick and Jody explaining how the winner would be determined the next night, through a combination of votes and judges’ points from the two nights of competition. 

“Cas,” Dean said, shaking Castiel lightly, “are you okay?”

He turned toward Dean and it was like someone turned the world back on. He hugged Dean, and he felt every inch of Dean’s body pressed against his. He heard the audience chant his name, a few loyal supporters sticking around while everyone else milled out. He smelled the pervasive funk of hairspray and sweat that never seemed to leave the ballroom.

Castiel pulled away to look at Dean, and saw so much joy in his face—excitement and triumph and happiness—but also something just for Castiel. It was the recognition of the companionship and partnership that had taken them so far, both professionally and personally. It was respect.

And maybe a little bit of love.

He and Dean were back in soundstage to compete for the last time before he knew it. He barely remembered changing back into his t-shirt and shorts, or someone scraping the makeup off his face the night before, let alone going home and sleeping before getting up and working out the rest of their twenty-four hour fusion dance. 

But it must’ve happened because Dean was back in his arms, both of them in their final costumes—simple black pants and blue button-downs—coaching him through the last details of their last dance, a foxtrot-rumba fusion to a dance track called _[Rather Be](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-M1AtrxztU)_. 

The rest of the final night of the season rumbled on around them, every couple coming back on finale night to dance. A pop star Castiel wasn’t familiar with sang her newest single, and the troupe and eliminated pros danced a fast and crisp cha-cha-cha. 

Jody came back once to talk to them about their preparations but for the life of him, Castiel couldn’t recall what either he or Dean’d said to her. But he did hear her say that in only thirty minutes the final fusion dances would begin, and that knowledge that sat like a stone in his gut.

“Cas,” Dean said shortly after she left, “You were so calm last night. What happened?” 

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know. Last night didn’t feel like the end—this does. I don’t want to go out without giving it my best shot, but I can’t seem to—” He shook his hands like he was trying to shoo the tension out of his body.

“Maybe you need a kiss for luck,” Dean said with a small grin as he brought Castiel’s arms back up into hold.

Castiel laughed, but Dean shocked him by dropping a kiss on his lips. Castiel blinked a few times, trying to process what had just happened, and Dean looked just as flummoxed at what he’d done. It hadn’t been a _real_ kiss, just a brush of Dean’s lips over the corner of Castiel’s mouth—really more cheek than mouth anyhow—but all the nervousness and anxiety simmering in Castiel’s belly burned off with that one small kiss.

“Sorry,” Dean said sheepishly. Castiel felt a wide smile spread across his face, and he dreamily sunk into the foxtrot hold.

“I’m not,” Castiel said softly, pitched loud enough that Dean could just hear it over the noise of the finale going on around them.

They smiled at each other as they went through their last few run throughs, Castiel’s tension seeping away with every turn and break.

When they were finally called out to the dancefloor, Castiel wasn’t afraid anymore. He wasn’t afraid of dancing in public, of making a mistake, of loving the man he loved. Their music played and he just danced, relishing the feel of Dean in his arms and the hardwood under his feet.

—

Dean couldn’t remember ever feeling so light as he danced. He glided from one step to the next, back and forth between the foxtrot and the rumba. He knew Castiel fumbled a step or two, and even Dean didn’t dance as well as he usually liked, but with only twenty-four hours to prepare—really more like twelve or thirteen—the judges tended to be more lenient.

And really, he didn’t care much what the judges thought as he danced. This was his last dance with Castiel on the show, and he was going to just dance it, instead of worrying about what anyone else thought of it.

They stepped through rumba closed hip twists and foxtrot back twinkles, both smiling madly. Their long final minute of dancing ended in a flash, and they stood before the judges for the last time.

As they listened to their last critiques—all positive, Dean draped an arm over Castiel’s shoulders and Castiel brought his arm up to rest on the small of Dean’s back. They stayed in their embrace through getting their judges’ scores (a total of thirty-nine points) and even as they walked up to the stage one last time to get the final results.

“Krissy,” Jody said, “You’ve worked so hard this season to make each performance more spectacular than the last. With two perfect scores last night, will you be the winner of this season of Ballroom Superstars?”

Dick spoke next. “Kevin, your tenacity and spirit has impressed the judges and the viewers week after week. After scoring seventy-six points last night, did the viewers make you their champion?”

“Castiel.” Jody and every camera in the ballroom turned to Castiel. Castiel stiffened under his arm, and Dean’s stomach did a flip. He felt sweat trickle down between his shoulderblades to pool in the small of his back, only adding to his discomfort as he waited for their results. “Your connection with your partner all season long has entranced us all. You also reached perfection twice last night—could our first same-sex couple take the trophy home tonight?”

“Kevin and Jo, Krissy and Aaron, Castiel and Dean,” Dick said, drawing out every name as long as possible, “The winners and new champions of Ballroom Superstars are …”

The music changed and the audience roared, but Dean only heard his heart hammering in his chest. Dean tried to keep any trace of emotion of his face, but he tapped his hand on Castiel’s shoulder nervously until Castiel brought up his hand to clasp it. Dean felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. No matter what happened next, he knew he had created something bigger than this show. He had Castiel, and he didn’t need a trophy to be worthy of him.

“Castiel and Dean!”

Castiel spun him around and grabbed him a in wild hug. Dick and Jody led them over to trophy and Dean touched it reverently. With Castiel’s hands on his and the trophy, they both lifted it triumphantly over their heads. Other dancers came out to lift them up and bounce them on their shoulders.

The Mirrorball in his hands and confetti streaming down, all Dean could see was Castiel’s smiling face. They looked at each other and Dean mouthed a _way to go, man_ in Castiel’s direction. Castiel reached over to Dean and Dean fit his hand into Castiel’s.

They’d done it, and they’d done it together.


	16. Epilogue

A few months later …

Dean stepped off the tour bus weary and aching. He barely responded to the shouts of goodbyes as his eyes scanned the parking lot, looking for Castiel.

In hindsight, Dean did think that their three month long physical separation was for the best. It allowed them some cooling off time, and some time for him to separate his real feelings for Castiel from the heightened emotions of the show. But he also knew that if he didn’t talk to Castiel, didn’t at least try to turn this spark between them into a real relationship, he’d regret it.

So they talked and video chatted and texted, and only occasionally had that included anything dirty. And for being cooped up with a lot of other sexy people, Dean thought he showed remarkable self-restraint. He only occasionally begged for Castiel to rumble in his gravelly baritone all the things he could do to Dean when they saw each other again—and that was only when things were especially desperate.

That’s not to say they hadn’t had some great conversations. They took the time to figure out what they both wanted from a relationship, and hammer out all the pesky details that seemed so unimportant when a live, very kissable and very sexy human was standing in front of them.

But most of what they talked about was ordinary everyday stuff. Dean told Castiel stories from talking to fans or sightseeing during tour stops. He texted Castiel pictures of him and Charlie at the top of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, the top of Reunion Tower in Dallas, the top of the Space Needle in Seattle. In soft voices in the middle of the night, he admitted to Castiel just how touched he’d been by fans stories; he had heard over and over how much dancing had changed their lives, how their families came together the watch the show week after week, and even how Dean and Castiel’s story had struck a chord and inspired people to come out.

  
Dean couldn’t believe how much dancing with Castiel had meant to other people. He knew they had been popular during the show, but he thought it’d had to do with their dancing. He’d had no idea that Castiel’s story of disgrace and redemption had been so meaningful to anyone other than Castiel himself. He often told Castiel that he wished he had something more to say than “uh thanks?” but Castiel assured him that just him listening was enough. After all, Castiel reasoned, listening to their story and acknowledging their struggle had been more than they’d probably had before that. 

Dean figured Castiel was right. During Dean’s summer tour, Castiel had started a job at a non-profit that helped LGBT+ youth through outreach, legal assistance and more. So, Dean trusted Castiel’s expertise as someone whose job it was to listen to people.

Castiel occasionally told Dean about his own touching stories. He spoke of triumphs like helping a young girl find somewhere to live or reconnecting a boy with his family who were trying to do better by him. He avoided discussing some of the evidence of savage brutality he saw too frequently, but Dean could hear how it gnawed at him in the way he phrased things. 

When those topics came up, Dean tried to steer Castiel away to something less depressing. Though, not as sad, Castiel then often switched to being cranky about L.A. real estate. Castiel had been kicked out of his condo shortly after the show ended, and had had a hell of a time finding somewhere else to live. Royalties from his book and fees from speaking appearances meant he had a nice chunk of change in his bank account, but he had a hard time finding a property he liked in a neighborhood he liked.

And the fact that Castiel was traveling back and forth to Washington D.C. didn’t make the house hunt any easier. He and Hannah spent a couple weeks over several trips meeting with lawyers and legal consultants as their lawsuit got closer and closer to the Supreme Court. 

So, Dean’d opened up his house to Castiel for as long as he needed it. He was glad to have someone looking after his house while he was gone, but he wasn’t quite sure what would happen now that he’s back. He didn’t want to kick Castiel out, but they’ve only known each other for six months or so—would that mess things up if they start out _living together_?

Because if Dean knew one thing, he knew he wanted them to work out. All those long conversations over three months apart had cemented Dean’s feelings for Castiel. He liked hearing Castiel’s voice on the other end of the line, and missed hearing it between calls. He often wondered throughout the day how Castiel would react to something or what Castiel would say if he were there with Dean. And as the months ticked by, Dean longed to be back home in L.A. so he could see Castiel again in person, and hold him in his arms. 

It was that sense of longing that made him realize how much he cared for Castiel, and how much he wanted Castiel in his life as a friend, as a lover, as a _partner_.

A flash of light caught his eyes in the far corner of the parking lot. A man waved to him, his aviator sunglasses winking in the dying sunlight. He leaned against a hideous champagne-colored car, but as soon as he saw Dean, he took a step forward. Dean rushed to meet him, dropping his bags on the way.

“Cas,” Dean breathed as he wrapped Castiel in a hug. They might spoken nearly every day for the past three months, but it couldn’t hold a candle to being with Castiel in person. He buried his face in Castiel’s neck and breathed deep, savoring the smell of the aftershave and laundry detergent. 

“Dean,” Castiel said and Dean felt himself melt deeper into Castiel’s arms and the deep rumble of his voice. “Would you like to come back with me to my place?”

“You mean my place,” Dean said with a laugh. Castiel smiled at him, his eyes dark with a promise of what he wanted to do to Dean when they got there, and Dean shivered. 

Castiel helped Dean load his bags into the Lincoln, and soon they were on their way. They drove back to Dean’s home, hands interlocked over the gearshift and ready to face whatever came next—together.


End file.
